The Assassin's Apprentice
by Winterlyn Dow
Summary: Arya Stark has the potential to become great within her order, if only she can let go of the past. Some things are easier said than done. Jaqen H'ghar is her most trusted mentor. Will his guidance help her leave her hurts behind and rise through the ranks or will he steer her down a path of self-discovery?
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer: GRRM owns almost all characters and their world. This is merely an homage to his fantastic story.**

**I should probably say that there are possibly spoilers for every book until _The Winds of Winter, _whose available chapters I have not read yet. I suppose that makes this slightly A/U because anything that has occurred with the characters in WoW will not be part of the reality of this particular fic.**

* * *

The girl sat on one of the black stone benches beneath the shade of a fig tree in the courtyard of the Temple of Black and White. She was exhausted and sore from her latest training session, which she still referred to as her dancing lesson. While this drew strange looks from the Faceless Men who heard her call it such, in her heart, she still held Syrio's memory close and aspired to be the water dancer he believed she was capable of becoming. Of all of the lessons an acolyte was meant to learn under the roof of the House of Black and White, _dancing_ was definitely her favorite.

She was fiddling absent-mindedly with her dark, chestnut hair which she preferred to keep short, finding it more practical. It had been five or six moons since she had cut it up to her chin, her preferred length. It grew fast and was now brushing her shoulders, the length at which it began to wave and curl. It sometimes flew in her eyes while she trained, an annoyance. It was time to cut it again. She pulled her dagger from her boot, the sharpest of the three she carried these days, and grabbed her hair into a bundle, preparing to saw it off unceremoniously. Jaqen placed his hand lightly on hers, staying it for a moment.

"A girl should grow her hair long," he told her, reaching for her thick tresses and freeing them from her grip. He tucked a stray lock behind her ear. "A man likes to see a girl with flowing hair."

"What do I care what men want to see?" the fierce girl spat. "Long hair is stupid. It takes too long to brush and arrange, it gets caught in things, and it gets in the way during a fight."

"A girl thinks only of the bad but has not considered the good," Jaqen chided.

"Good? What good?" Arya scoffed. "All that trouble so some bloody man might think I'm pretty? Any man close enough to consider my looks probably isn't going to live long enough to be concerned about the length of my hair. Why would I care, anyway?"

She had a brief memory of her sister Sansa in King's Landing, sitting still as a statue on a stool while her maid arranged her long, auburn hair in the Southron style she adopted shortly after their arrival in the city. It took an hour at least. Arya could never imagine sitting still so long, just for some silly looping braids and hair ornaments. What a waste of time! Still, the memory brought a sharp pang with it, a feeling she might have identified as the sadness of loss, had she allowed herself to dwell on it any longer. Arya didn't enjoy feelings any more than she enjoyed sitting still for an hour of grooming though, so she brushed her sister's face away and focused on what Jaqen was saying.

"An enemy sees a lovely girl walking toward him and appreciates her beauty. He does not reach for his sword. An enemy sees a warrior striding toward him and he prepares to fight."

"I'm not scared of an enemy preparing to fight. I don't need to trick a man to beat him," she declared, insulted.

Jaqen smiled at her a moment, a look she knew well. It was a look that was born of a combination of fondness and consternation.

"Perhaps not, but a wise man uses all the gifts he is given. A wise girl should learn to do the same," he advised.

"Well, I'd rather focus on my skills with a blade because all the hair in the world won't make me beautiful," Arya sniffed dismissively.

"No," Jaqen agreed, "it is not a girl's hair that makes her beautiful."

He smiled at her again and this time she had a sense he meant something entirely different; something she did not quite understand. She bit her lip as she considered his words but found they made her feel strange. She misliked the feeling, and so put the words out of her mind.

This was to be their last moment together for a time. Jaqen was sailing somewhere, on a mission, something he could not or would not discuss with her beyond his usual prating about doing his duty, serving the Many-Faced god, and the like.

"Jaqen," Arya began tentatively. When he turned to face her, sheathing his sword, his eyebrows lifted in inquiry.

"Yes, child?"

Arya bristled a bit at that. She hadn't considered herself a child since she left Winterfell to go south with her father, though she had to admit, perhaps she didn't know anything about anything back then. But certainly since surviving on the streets of King's Landing after… well, _after._ And then her journey up the King's Road in the company of the Night's Watch, her time in Harrenhal, her cross-country escape with Hot Pie and Gendry (_Gendry! Gods!)_, her brief sojourn with the Brotherhood without Banners, her time as part-captive, part-outlaw side-kick of the Hound, her voyage across the sea to Braavos, and her apprenticeship in the House of Black and White which had begun nearly two years prior—surely all these things qualified her as something more than a _child_. Would the Faceless Men let a mere child give the gift of death?

Jaqen's face was still frozen in curiosity but his fingers wrapping and unwrapping themselves around the hilt of his sword betrayed his impatience and brought the girl back around to what it was she had wanted to ask him.

"How long will you be away this time?"

His look softened and he placed his hand gently on her shoulder.

"A man cannot say," he told her. "Awhile, to be sure."

His apprentice nodded, feeling inexplicably sad. It was perhaps because once again, she was losing her pack to become a lone wolf.

"Don't be stupid," she scowled inwardly. "You don't need a pack. You're not a wolf. You're _no one."_

After he sailed away, she had time to reflect on some of the lessons he had tried to impart. She had many teachers and mentors in the House of Black and White but Jaqen H'ghar understood her better than most, probably better than anyone she'd ever known, apart from her father and Jon. It made what he tried to teach her especially important to her. Working in the temple, she collected offerings and lit candles around the pool. It was during these duties when she noted her own reflection in the dark waters, candles imparting just enough light that she could see her own face looking back at her. Her hair was hanging down as she leaned over the water and she decided Jaqen was right about wearing it long. If men were so stupid that they could be distracted by some long curls, then she should not be so stubborn as to give up the advantage. She began growing her hair out that day.

The other apprentices and acolytes had taken to calling her the Cat. It was a name that harkened back to her days as the girl who called herself Cat of the Canals, selling the bounty of the sea as she learned how to not be Arya Stark, listening for secrets and mastering coming and going without drawing attention. Like a cat, she was graceful and lithe. Like a cat, she had her sharp claws, though in her case, they were of the steel variety and had proven more lethal than the claws of the alley cats that had trailed behind her during her days of selling cockles to the sailors in port. Like a cat, she enjoyed being stroked from time to time but mostly kept to herself, coming and going as she pleased, needing no one.

All Faceless Men were known for their stealth but the Cat had a natural aptitude for slipping in and out of rooms without detection that had earned her the grudging respect of her peers and praise from the Kindly Man. When moving around undetected, it was never the words of those in the House of Black and White she heard in her head, urging her to blend, to be unseen. Instead, she heeded Syrio's voice. _Quiet as a shadow. Calm as still water. Quick as a deer. Fear cuts deeper than swords. _She suspected they knew, or the Kindly Man at least, that she wasn't always exactly _no one _all the time. Sometimes she was a water dancer. Sometimes she was a wolf. Sometimes, after waking from a nightmare, she was a mouse again, if only for a moment. And sometimes, when she was alone and saying her well-worn prayer, she was Arya Stark.

It was eighteen months later that Jaqen returned to find this Cat, nearly six and ten, a woman grown in place of the skinny, defiant girl he left behind in Braavos. Grown more beautiful than he could have envisioned; more beautiful and more deadly.


	2. Chapter 2

If her father were alive, he would surely call her "Lyanna" without thinking, before remembering Lyanna had breathed her last in her bed of blood many years earlier. He would pause to consider the memory a moment before realizing that this was his _daughter_, grown up fierce and lovely, so much like her aunt at that same age that they could pass for twins. Arya would probably never know how much she resembled Eddard Stark's sister since anyone who was like to remember Lyanna Stark was dead and gone or so very far away that it was doubtful her path would ever cross theirs.

Jaqen did not know this she-wolf who had died before Arya Stark was born so he did not recognize the storm-grey eyes with their long, dark lashes as belonging to anyone other than this Cat; this newly minted assassin. Her thick, wavy hair, now swaying in the middle of her back, did not call to mind another dark, braided mane wreathed in winter roses. Never having met the lady whose tragic end was yet another chapter in the bloody history of that earlier rebellion in Westeros, he did not see those high cheekbones under blushing skin and think to himself, "She is so like another!" as a certain Targaryen prince would have done had he not had his own tragic end, dying with the name on his lips of which Arya's face surely would have reminded him.

To Jaqen, she was a new creation, striking and exceptional, as much for her spirit and aptitude as for the womanly form she now boasted. He found himself hoping she had mastered the art of wearing a new face convincingly because she might find her natural appearance cumbersome in times she was required to see but not be seen. In the space of her sojourn with the House of Black and White, she had evolved into the sort of woman who was noticed and while this could be useful in some ways, to be sure, he felt certain those ways were not the ones in which this girl aspired to excel.

* * *

Jaqen had returned to Braavos and immediately upon docking, leapt as quickly as he could to the solid ground, grateful to be standing once again on dry land. It was the first time in months the ground did not rock beneath his feet. Without hesitation, he made for the temple of his order, meaning to apprise the council of the success of his mission and to learn of any news since his absence that might be of interest. He was also curious to know if a girl had remained faithful to her training and was still among the acolytes of the order. He believed her natural abilities and her make up were very well suited to the life of a Faceless Man, but he also knew that there was the difficulty of the life she held onto, no matter how surreptitiously. It was conceivable that in his absence she had chosen to leave to pursue her wolf-dreams (mostly revolving around revenge), finally accepting one of the frequent offers made to her by the Kindly Man to release her from her training.

Upon passing through the ebony and weirwood doors, he was greeted by his petite colleague, a woman Arya had taken to calling "the waif." Though her manner was naturally calm, Jaqen could tell his comrade was pleased at his return.

"The others will want to speak with you immediately," she told him, turning to lead the way. He followed without a word, as was their way. Restraint in the House of Black and White was paramount, as it served to preserve the peace of those who entered the dark rooms in search of solace.

The conclave detained him for a little over an hour, interested to know the full details of his dealings while outside of their walls. The Kindly Man's eyes looked keenly at the newly arrived Lorathi as he discussed a bit of news he had heard while abroad in Westeros. The news related to a grey girl named Arya Stark who had been wed to a northern lord. She was said to have disappeared into the snow one night, carried off by a servant or a prince, depending on the version. Some said she had died, leaving her claim to her husband, a Bolton. Some said she had died long before she disappeared; before the marriage, even, and that this left the Boltons with no claim whatsoever. After his tales, the council informed him of the business of the order, successful missions, pending requests, and the progress of those striving to join them as Faceless Men. As the one known now as the Cat was his own recruit, and he her primary master, her progress was discussed with Jaqen in greater detail. It seemed that her training had progressed significantly and her skills were substantial, being one of their better acolytes with a sword and unmatched with throwing knives. She had even shown remarkable skill with Dothraki weaponry, the whip and the arakh. It was only the Kindly Man's uncertainty about her ability to dedicate herself to the life completely that stopped him from initiating her into the order.

"In some ways, she is still a highborn lady of Westeros," the Kindly Man concluded.

Jaqen chuckled lightly at that, disagreeing with his brother.

"No," he said, shaking his head, white forelock tumbling over his eye, "a girl was never that."

"Just so," the Kindly Man replied. "Nevertheless, she still clings to some part of that life and until she chooses to fully embrace this calling, I cannot pass her into the order."

Jaqen nodded his understanding, bowing slightly to the council as he rose from his seat, then leaving the chamber to pay his respects to the gods of the temple. Upon his arrival at the pool in the center of the main chamber, he lit a candle, bowing his head in reverence, thankful for another safe return home. Afterwards, he wandered the halls, nodding his greeting to his brothers and sisters as he passed them, searching for a wolf who was unable to become no one.

He walked into the large training room, full of acolytes. Their session today was set up as a sort of tourney. The apprentices, all boys save one dark-haired girl, were paired off two by two, fighting until their teacher determined one had bested the other, delivering either three significant wounding touches or one touch considered a death blow—to the neck, the heart, or a strike that would be likely to remove a limb. It seemed as if the tourney had been going on for some time, and was in the final phases. The girl was still competing with perhaps three other acolytes, her face colored with exertion and the sweat upon her brow causing some of the hair which had come loose from her braid to plaster her forehead.

In the end, she was bested by a larger opponent, a boy called the Bear by the other acolytes. He was near the end of his time as an apprentice, almost ready to be fully inducted into the order. Despite her quickness and balance, she was undone by her challenger's brute strength and her own exhaustion. She did not accept defeat graciously, scowling at the boy who looked, truth be told, a little nervous at her displeasure. The other acolytes pounded the large boy on his back and congratulated him on his victory, walking as a group to replace their blunted blades in the wall racks and leaving together in search of refreshment. Arya shuffled behind the group, replacing her tourney sword, apart. She swiped the sweat from her brow, scowling at the quickly retreating backs of her peers, then picked up a slender, sharp blade from its rack. Quickly turning, she raised her blade and took a swipe at the air. She had intended to train further, to do a little _needle work,_ as Syrio had taught her, but it was then that she noticed a familiar face in the corner of the room, studying her from under lifted brows.

"Jaqen!" she cried, dropping her sword arm. "You're back! Seven hells! When did you arrive? How was the journey? Did you see any pirates on the seas? Where did you go for so long?"

He raised his hands as if to buffet her barrage of words and laughed as he replied, "A man will tell all but first, he must work the kinks out of his muscles. The journey has left a man stiff and restless. Perhaps a girl would care to _dance_ with him? Of course, if you need to rest after your training…"

A wide grin appeared on her face and she said, "No, I don't need to rest. Are you sure you wish to _dance_ with me? After such a long journey and all, maybe _you_ need to rest first…"

"A girl has grown cocky since a man left this land," he remarked. "A man wonders, is this confidence or arrogance?"

She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes but there was a subtle smirk playing on her lips as she said, "Pick up your sword and let's find out."


	3. Chapter 3

Though he had watched her cross swords with her peers only moments before, Jaqen was surprised by her skill with the slender _Bravos_ blade she favored. He had intended only to stretch his tight muscles and test her skill (perhaps giving her a small but well-deserved lesson in humility in addition), but he found himself caught off-guard by her quickness and her ability to anticipate his moves. He was perturbed to discover he needed to exert himself in order to answer her challenge, something made painfully clear when she _thwacked_ his upper arm neatly with the flat of her blade, grinning uncontrollably at his grimace of pain and the shocked expression that followed. After a pause to reassess this skirmish, he changed his tactics to reflect a more aggressive assault style. The girl demonstrated how well-earned was the feline name bestowed upon her during his absence, sliding artfully beneath and around his thrusts, parrying with her slim blade even as she managed to slink behind him. She exhibited a patience in her sword play that she did not seem capable of in life. Her moves were a graceful dance; a ballet of singing steel and fluid motion which, when combined, were a thing of delicate, frightening beauty. He eventually disarmed her and forced her to yield but it was not without effort. Or admiration.

He bowed to her in appreciation of her skill and they replaced their swords in their proper racks. She pursed her lips with mild annoyance, then muttered to herself about needing more practice. It was plain that she demanded of herself certain victory, perhaps not a reasonable goal in the acolyte's practice of sword-play, but a necessary one for the warrior marching into battle or the assassin who desires to return home after performing the bidding of the Many-Faced god.

"A man has grown old and slow of late," he sighed, rubbing the arm that was like to show a large bruise by nightfall.

"Slow? If you're slow, what does that make me? You beat me," she growled in irritation. "And you've been cooped up on a ship for months, probably eating wormy bread and drinking rum."

"A man has been training with his sword since before a girl was born. Many men have received the gift of death by a man's sword and most provided less challenge than you did today," he responded, tilting his head slightly as he considered her. "Perhaps the years are creeping up on a man, slowing his steps more than he has realized."

"No," she insisted, "you're not old. I've improved and you're still hampered by your long journey. You were gone for so long, you don't realize how much practice I've had. I've spent loads of time with my dancing masters. Even with all that, I was barely a challenge."

He did not correct her perception, teasing her instead, saying, "So a girl has learned to fight skillfully. Has she also learned to flatter a man with what he wishes to hear, to disarm him and charm him out of his secrets?"

"I'm not trying to flatter you, Jaqen," she sniffed in an annoyed tone. "I meant what I said, and though I have learned a bit about flattery, it's certainly not my strength. I still find it much easier to learn a man's secrets by holding a blade to his throat than by charming him."

He laughed uproariously at this last, his eyes dancing as he remarked, "Just so." After a moment, finding his mirth infectious, she began laughing herself. It was an unguarded, throaty sound that pleased his ear.

"A girl has begun to wear her hair long," he observed quietly after their laughter died away. "Could it be that a man's advice was actually heeded?"

"I always heed your advice," she assured him, then, upon hearing his slight snort, amended, "though I may not always follow it precisely."

"Has this particular advice proven useful?"

"I don't know, really," she answered honestly, then added, "No one mistakes me for a boy anymore."

Jaqen reached over her shoulder, lifting her heavy braid and holding it loosely in his palm as the smile faded from his lips. After a moment, he allowed the thick plait to fall against her chest and seemed to look through her as he remarked softly, "No, a man does not suppose anyone will ever make that mistake again."

She thought that she could detect a small note of sadness in Jaqen's voice, but his eyes betrayed nothing. Her competence at reading the intention behind the words of others had improved along with her other skills but like flattery, it was not her strongest talent. She often found herself lamenting that the truth could not be carved out from behind people's eyes with an arakh, though this was not one of those times. When she attempted to probe the implication behind Jaqen's tone, she found herself reluctant to look too deeply. He was nearly impossible to read, anyway, but she felt an uncomfortable sense of rising panic when she considered his possible meaning.

She stuffed the feeling down deep inside, along with the other emotions that tried to rise up within her on occasion. She only ever allowed herself to feel anger: anger and hatred, and _only_ these, despite the Kindly Man's best efforts to quell them. He had tried in vain to teach her that her raw anger and boundless hatred were just another face for her fear, but she scoffed at this. She knew about fear. _Fear cuts deeper than swords._ What she felt was not her fear dressed up as some mummer's version of rage, it was the kindling that smoldered inside her, stoking her rage, keeping it alive. Sometimes it felt as if she was filled with wildfire, unquenchable, burning so hot that she could not contain it. Her hatred was the fuel that spurred her on in her training, long after the others were at their meal or in their beds. It was the reason she wasn't entirely able to become _no one_, remaining still the savage she-wolf deep within her heart. She was the twin of Lyanna Stark not just in countenance and form, but in spirit, yet better equipped to channel the wildness and desire, which in Lyanna's case had become a recklessness leading to her own ruin. Lyanna had allowed love to lead to the destruction of all she cherished most. Arya, with so much bitter purpose and the advantage of the lessons she had learned within these walls, would rely on her hatred to lead to the destruction of all that had caused her grief, thus satisfying her desperate, burning need for vengeance.

This was the idea that had taken root in her long ago, and lingered still though she knew it was at odds with the creed of the order in whose debt she remained. She struggled mightily against this selfishness and tried to give herself up to the Many-Faced god, but the wildfire within her always burned away that resolve. She wanted to serve the order, to become a Faceless Man _and_ have her revenge. She had debts to pay in Westeros, and a gift to give each of the people she named in a hoarse whisper before she closed her eyes at night. _Ser Gregor, Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei. _

_Valar morghulis._

Why must she choose? The question bounced inside of her head for the thousandth time. She had mostly resolved her obsession with fairness but the childish notion of equity died hard and sometimes, she still felt if she only pleaded her case with enough eloquence, some allowance would be made for her. She had yet to find the proper words to win the approval she needed for the quest that burned inside of her.

"Jaquen," she began suddenly, "Do you… Do you only serve the Many-Faced god?"

He considered her face with his own mild expression, waiting for her to elaborate.

"I mean," she continued, "do you ever do anything for yourself?"

His features exhibited minor amusement as he answered her, "A man eats, a man sleeps, a man may seek pleasures where he finds them."

"No, I mean… I mean, what if someone insults you? Or takes what is yours? What if someone betrays you or does some harm to you? Would you… Have you ever just…"

His amusement became more obvious at her halting speech and he lazily dropped to a low bench, reclining as he waited for her to complete her inquiry.

"Could you just kill someone because _you_ wanted them dead?" she finally asked. "Without a contract, I mean? Someone who wasn't an immediate threat to your life?"

Jaqen sat up, crossing his arms over his chest. His gaze turned sharp as he narrowed his eyes and regarded Arya.

"A girl is thinking of old enemies," he pronounced after a moment.

She bit her lip, a habit that had never been completely lost despite enduring some stinging blows meant to drive it from her.

"I just wondered if service in the order meant you could _never_ do anything for your own purposes," she clarified.

Jaqen sighed.

"Service to the Many-Faced god means a man's _own_ _purposes_ are the same as the order's."

"Always?" she pressed in a small voice, reminding him of the child who had whispered that first name to him, the name of a man to whom he had dealt death. For the Red god. For her.

His gaze softened and he had no wish to hurt her but he also needed for her to understand. In the service of the Many-Faced god, there was no room for personal vendetta. His answer was firm but his voice gentle.

"A man has said."

She looked away from him, her eyes staring off, examining something only she could see, something far away. A parade of faces, if he had to guess about it; a string of Westerosi, some common men who had done uncommonly abhorrent things, and some of royal blood who had reshaped her life into the form it took today. What was that form? Who was she now? Half dispassionate assassin, half ferocious avenger? A fraction indifferent cat, a fraction snarling wolf? Part woman longing for a past that would never return, part child grieving the future that would never be?

She was some amalgamation of all these, he felt, and more besides. However, he was certain that the one thing she was not was the one thing the order demanded she be: no one.


	4. Chapter 4

After her defeat at the hands of _a man,_ Arya was expected to work in the kitchens, helping Umma to prepare the small feast requested by the Kindly Man to mark the return of a brother of the house. The cook would be glad of her help today, as there were like to be more dishes and those more complex than the typical supper eaten by the servants of the House of Black and White. Celebration after the success of an important mission was not common so the preparations had Arya curious about the details of this particular commission of Jaqen's.

She left the training room to do her duty but not before reminding Jaqen, "You promised to tell all. I haven't heard a bit about your trip or where you went. I expect you to fulfill your promise, later."

He nodded, saying that he would tell her as much of the tale as she cared to hear when next they met. As she departed, though, he wondered what exactly he should tell her about his visit to Old Town and the Riverlands and how much of what he learned there should remain hidden. Her conflicting feelings about her path to becoming a member of the order had never been more apparent to him. While he was away, he had feared that she might have left Braavos to pursue her dream of justice for those Arya Stark lost in another life, but when he found her still studying among the acolytes, he began to wonder if she had somehow managed to lay that dream to rest. He discovered only moments before that the blood lust still burned deep within her breast. It was proving harder to extinguish than he would have believed when he encountered that small, wrathful child on the King's Road so long ago. He recalled her, wispy bit of a girl that she was, whispering her bitter prayer to the wind and the dying embers of the fires lit by those trudging their way north to join a noble band of outcasts serving the realm on a great wall of ice. The memory made him sad. She had been so wild and fierce yet still she had so much hope-hope of seeing her family again, hope of exacting her revenge, hope that someone would take care of her and soothe her hurts (her mother, her brothers, her friends) if only she could hold on long enough to find them.

He had seen the gods deliver her blow after blow. Any one of these might have caused her to crumple and simply give up her struggle but she did not. Yet undeniably, she had been changed by each of these calamities and even more so by her tutelage in the House of Black and White. The vestiges of hope still remained, but should she wish to take the final step and accept her place as a servant of the Many-Faced god, she would need to shed them. Whether this would be to her ultimate benefit or detriment, he was no longer sure. What he had learned about the Westerosi war and the state of the North was certain to confuse her about her choices even more and he was not sure which was the greater sin: to cause her more doubt about her destiny or to withhold information that might allow her greater control over it.

* * *

Upon entering the kitchens, the Cat was met with Umma's reprimand for her lateness.

"I know they call you the Cat," the cook complained gruffly, "but does that mean you have to keep a cat's time and come and go as you please?"

The girl knew the cook's manner to be brusque but for all that, they really got along quite well. Arya appreciated the older woman's dry humor, which became more apparent once the acolyte finally mastered the Braavosi tongue. For the hundredth time, she thought to herself how Hot Pie would love working in this kitchen under the direction of Umma who was really an excellent cook and baker.

"Sorry, Umma," she apologized. "My combat training went long."

"Humph!" the woman responded. "Combat training, was it? Is that what you call it when you flirt with a certain Lorathi over crossed blades?"

_"Flirt?_" the girl thought, confused. "With a Lorathi? Does she mean _Jaqen? _Preposterous!_"_

The cook continued fussing while she nimbly chopped several tiny, brownish peppers.

"If you spent half as much time doing your duty as you do _dancing_ with that assassin, you might have already been an assassin in your own right!"

"Umma, I don't know what you mean," Arya said, truly baffled. "Jaqen hasn't even been here these past eighteen moons and when he is, I fight with him because _he's_ the best and I want to learn everything I can from him so one day _I_ can be the best. And I don't flirt!"

It was such an odd thought that the girl wasn't sure what to do with the strange, twisty feeling it left in her. She had never had any sort of stupid romantic notions about anyone, much less Jaqen. She found herself concerned that if Umma thought such a thing was possible, maybe others saw it that way as well. Did _Jaqen _think she was flirting with him? She felt awkward and worried the more she thought of it.

Jaqen was not quite a brother nor a father but was perhaps the closest thing she'd had to either since Ser Ilyn had obeyed the order of that vile, repulsive Joffery and taken her father's head with Lord Stark's own sword. She had a huge, endless, aching hole where her heart used to be, consumed bit by bit as she lost those who defined and shaped her life: Jon, when he left her for the Wall, took the first little bit. Then, Nymeria. She perhaps hadn't realized how much at the time, but Nymeria's banishment had cost her dearly. Then, of course, her father, her mother and Robb. Later, Hot Pie and Gendry, though she was more angry with them than sad, since they were alive and chose to abandon her. When Jaqen was with her, the hole filled, just a little. He couldn't be everything she lacked, but he was all she had.

Arya had no interest in marrying, ever. When she stretched her mind forth into the future, all she saw for herself was blood and steel, never a husband or children. Never a home. She could not feel desire for those things, not when her energies were so consumed in her daily tasks for the order and her training. Not when her nights were filled with wolf dreams and her few spare moments with visions of putting a dagger through Queen Cersei's eye or plunging her sword through Ser Ilyn's heart. The girl had passed from childhood into womanhood within the walls of the temple of Him with Many Faces. She hadn't had dealings with boys and men beyond those who trained her, the other acolytes, those she used as part of her disguise in her clandestine assignments, and those whom she planned to kill. There was no one to tempt her thoughts away from her goals, no one to turn her mind toward those silly, flowery notions. There was no one she thought of that way, except maybe Gendry, and then only for a few seconds after waking up from a very rare dream (a dream in which he would put his rough hand against her cheek and call her "M'lady" and she would tell him he was stupid and he would laugh). Even then, she tried to push those half-formed feelings away the instant she remembered where she was, and where _he_ was, and _why_ they were where they were.

"Here," Umma chirped, interrupting her thoughts to hand her a spoon, "stir the broth then add those mussels."

* * *

That night, the acolytes in their soft robes of black and white drifted in and took their places at the large table, all but the few tapped to serve at dinner. The Cat, having helped to prepare dinner, had done her duty for the evening and was allowed to sit and sup with the Faceless Men. Jaqen suppressed an amused smile when he caught Arya scowling at the large boy who had bested her in the training tourney earlier. The boy had been assigned to serve that night and attempted to hand a glass of watered wine to a the still spiteful girl who muttered under her breath to him. She spoke too softly for Jaqen to hear, or anyone for that matter, aside from the girl herself and the one for whom the words were meant. The muscular boy jumped back at her quiet expression, a look of concern coloring his features. Perhaps he was less ready to be inducted into the order than Jaqen and the rest of the council previously believed. It seems he had not fully mastered his fear, or his face.

Though he couldn't hear Arya, Jaqen was adept at reading lips. She spoke Braavosi to the boy, saying, "It's not what's in that cup that I want. I have a thirst for another contest. Perhaps this time, we can see who is stealthiest. Or fastest with throwing blades. Or both." The implication was that she might creep up upon him in a darkened corridor and demonstrate her skill with the knives for which she was renowned amongst the apprentices. Jaqen believed it was merely bravado, a way to assuage the vexation and embarrassment pent up inside over her inability to best the boy with her tourney sword earlier, but her peer clearly believed the threat behind her words. Jaqen would have to ask his brothers what this little Cat had done during his absence to engender such apprehension amongst her fellows.

The waif led the prayer before the meal, acolytes and Faceless Men alike dipping their countenances, both real and false, in reverence. Soon after, they were eating and conversing. Arya loved the camaraderie of this time of day. The talk around her was friendly for the most part, and she still marveled sometimes at the fact that she could challenge the Kindly Man or Jaqen with questions and they would answer her honestly. She could discuss poisons and their effects on the body, swordplay, or the fastest way to kill a man over her broth and bread and no one judged her or chastised her for not being a _proper lady_. There were things she gave up to place herself in the service of the Many-Faced god to be sure, but had she not gained just as much? For all the times she felt bound and constrained by the requirements of her apprenticeship and the demands of the Kindly Man that she leave Arya Stark and all she loved behind, there were the times that she remembered that Arya Stark was never truly free, either. The restrictions placed on her as the daughter of a powerful lord of the Seven Kingdoms were legion, and would likely have worsened as she aged. Here, she was told she must forget who she loved, who she hated, and to whom she longed to show the _pointy end_ of Needle but in Westeros… There, at nearly six and ten, she would be told what to wear, how and with whom to speak, and who to marry.

She closed her eyes and let her mind drift across the Narrow Sea, imagining a world in which she had never left King's Landing; a world in which she was managed, handled, and used as collateral; a world in which powerful men who bore her no love would choose who shared her bed, whose children she was to bear, and how her days might be occupied until they had all been spent. She shuddered, and her eyes flew open to see Jaqen appraising her keenly from his seat, arranged across the table and several spaces up from her own. She was sitting with the acolytes at the lower end of the table while Jaqen had a place of honor near the head. Still, from that distance, she could read the concern in his expression, subtle though it was. Then the Kindly Man spoke to him and her mentor erased all emotion from his face as he turned to reply. The Cat went back to her plate, vowing once again to push Westeros from her mind, at least for the duration of the feast.


	5. Chapter 5

Having exhausted herself with her sword and her service all day, the girl found it laborious to keep her eyes from closing as the feast neared its end. The lull of soft voices in conversation punctuated by occasional delicate laughter, the embrace of the warmth of the room and the fullness of her belly all conspired to deliver her awareness to the shadowy realm of unconscious reverie. She fought the heaviness of her lids, winning the battle three, then four times but finally succumbed, head tilted back against her chair as if she were staring at the juncture of the wall and the low ceiling across the table from her. When the thick apex of her braid pressed into the wooden top rail of her seat, she awoke instantly, the smell of men and steel faint in her flared nostrils.

She looked over her shoulder and through the trees, seeing a hundred pairs of bright eyes flashing back at her, awaiting her command. When the first shouts rang into the night, curses cutting through the sound of rustling leaves and the calls of night birds, she lifted her head toward the stars and howled, long and deep. Then a young boy's piercing cry collided with the unmistakable sound of steel meeting steel and she sprang from her crouch with a blinding acceleration that brought her from the edge of the forest to the steps of a wooden structure in a blaze of fur and snarls and terrifying intention.

Two men battled at the door: one wiry with a cunning face, wearing mismatched and dented plate over rags, committed to slaughter with an inhuman snarl curling over his rotten teeth; the other large, looming, dark, infuriated and bare chested, grunting as each blow of his great-sword crashed down on his foe, determined to protect; to defend. She watched for one fleeting moment, seeing that neither was a great swordsman, but both were driven by a savage need to prevail. The sounds of a child's wailing drew her away from the scene in the doorway and she lunged, feeling her destination before she saw it, using the sound in the darkness as a compass to guide her, just as a blind girl had been taught once, grasping the filthy man by his throat and wrenching it out almost before she even saw the child whose clothes at which he was tearing. The girl's small face looked up at her from the ground, great round eyes full of fright and wonder as the dying outlaw breathed his last next to her. She lowered her head to sniff child's hair, filling her mind with the scent of her innocence, the scent of the defenseless. Almost instantly, her cousins were doing their work, attacking the attackers, feasting on warm flesh amid surprised screams and the gasping, choking gurgles of those whose mouths were too full of blood to shriek their fear into the night.

She padded back to the house, seeing the dark man drive his sword point through the wiry man's heart, pushing it further and further until their faces were so close, they could have kissed. The impaled man's open mouth became slack, his eyes lifeless as one last rasp crawled up through his throat and then the only thing keeping him from crumpling to the wooden floorboards of the platform was the strength in the arms of the brawny man wielding the sword. A moment later, it had been wrenched free, boot in the chest of the brigand forcing the corpse to slide off with a sickly sound and fall to the ground.

Amid the shrieks and weeping, the sounds of dying and feasting and howls, the man turned his gaze upon the large wolf who had saved those he was charged with protecting, and she saw his eyes, blazing blue and familiar. His gaze deepened and she met it, unflinching, knowing.

_Gendry._

A hand grasped her shoulder and she started, giving an abbreviated gasp and seeing fathomless bronze eyes, piercing her own. It took her a second longer than it should have to understand where she was and what must have just happened.

"A dream," she realized, thinking it to herself. "I fell asleep at the feast. It was just a dream."

_A wolf dream._

"A girl is tired," Jaqen stated quietly, "and should retire to her cell."

Her heart quickened at his tone and his expression. He was exhibiting the utmost discretion, an almost inordinate amount of control, and it made her wonder if she had… had _said_ something or done something that would give cause for the priests and acolytes to be suspicious, or disappointed, or derisive of her. How long had she been dreaming?

Jaqen took her elbow firmly in his hand, forcing her to rise from her chair, and led her out of the warm room into the darkened corridor. The others were drifting away, this way and that, and he waited until they had almost reached her cell before he spoke.

"A girl must be more careful," he intoned with an urgency. "A girl must be _no one_."

"I know," she said in a tired voice.

"No, Arya Stark, you do _not_ know. You do not _understand."_

There was something in his voice, in his use of _her name_ that drew her up short, causing her to pause and look uncertainly at his face, her parted lips drawing in a small breath that was a question. He comprehended, sensed the tight fear that gripped her heart at his words, and he was glad of it. She needed to understand—this was no matter for joking, no matter for playful flippancy.

"Rule your face," he continued. "Rule your words. Rule your intentions."

Old lessons, all, ones she had been taught within weeks of her arrival in the House of Black and White, though they had taken her longer to master. Perhaps even still she had not mastered them. But he meant something by repeating the mantra, and not just a reminder of her shortcomings. There was a caution behind his words, a crucial warning that her mind was unable to latch onto and decipher. But one thing the girl knew was that Jaqen was never needlessly anxious. The knowledge filled her with foreboding.

Before she could press him on his meaning, he was gone.

_Quick as a snake. Swift as a deer. Quiet as a shadow._

* * *

The waif rapped the girl's knuckles with the heavy hilt of a dagger she produced with merciless efficiency, immediately replacing it within the folds of her robes with a quickness that rendered it no more than a blur to Arya's eyes.

"Ow!" the girl cried, rubbing her hand with a frown.

The precise chemistry of rendering effective poisons from plants and minerals required focus, something the Cat seemed to lack today.

"Do you want to end up flavoring some man's wine with a concoction that will loosen his bowels and sit him astride his privy for a night? Do you want to be the Faceless Man renown for rendering men's bowels to water rather than giving the gift of death?" the waif chastised her in High Valyrian. "Perhaps those who lack the funds to pray for their enemies' deaths will have enough to hire you to upset their digestion for a while."

"No! I want to be a master of poisons. I want to be a master of all ways to give the gift," the girl insisted grimly, in near perfect High Valyrian. Her accent had improved greatly in the past year when she applied herself more fully to her languages. Her Braavosi was now impeccable and her Dothraki passable.

"Then pay close mind to what I am doing and replicate it precisely," the waif directed, "or else your brothers will stop calling you the Cat and start calling you the Pale Mare."

Arya glowered at her but she endeavored to apply herself to the lesson. She was less frightened of producing an ineffective poison and more concerned with accidentally poisoning herself due to her carelessness. Her mind had been too filled with conflict and confusion to concentrate but she pocketed her thoughts and uncertainty about her path, her wolf dreams, Jaqen's warning, and Umma's preposterous and unsettling words. She could think on all of it later, a safe distance away from the waif's weighty dagger hilt and her lightning speed. She could consider all these things and…

And Gendry.

The rest of her lesson passed in uneventful silence as she perfected a few drops of the Tears of Lys, the small amount enough to end a company of men. It gave her pause as she regarded the clear liquid in its tiny vial. Knights, executioners, soldiers and outlaws alike could be eradicated, all their painted armor, their sharpened blades, their brute strength and murderous aim rendered as useless as silk ribbons on a battlefield with just the slightest taste of what was in her vial.

She had just bottled death.

A small sigh escaped her lips just before the corners of her mouth tugged up into a malicious smile.

* * *

Her lesson in potions and language over, the Cat's mind was in chaos. After leaving the waif, she noted she had perhaps an hour before Umma would have the midday meal prepared, not enough time to fully sort through her tumbling thoughts but too much time to sit in stillness ignoring them. She chose embrace the physical which she hoped would require too much energy to allow her to be tormented by the mental. It had been a while since she had spent much time with ranged weapons.

She entered the long chamber and lit the torches on the walls to illuminate the straw bales at the far end, linen targets pinned on them. She selected a long bow-in truth, much too large for her, but she craved its power and range-and slung a quiver full of arrows over her shoulder. She studied her target, quieted her mind, and then reached behind her to capture a shaft. Deftly she held it and then in one graceful, fluid arc, pulled it from the quiver, notched then released it, fletching grazing her cheek with a light kiss as the arrow flew along the line dictated by her eyes. A muffled _thump_ announced that the point had found its home, the shaft buried a few inches deep into the straw, having hit the center of the target.

"Ser Gregor_,"_ she prayed, repeating the motion, arrow grasped from behind her, notched and released, following the path dictated by her deadly promise, her grim invocation.

_Thump!_

_"_Dunsen_."_

_Thump!_

_"_Raff the Sweetling_."_

_Thump! Thump! Thump!_

_"_Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei_."_

"Valar morghulis," finished a voice familiar to her as her own.

She stiffened, and then turned to see the Lorathi leaning against the entryway, arms folded across his chest, distinct disapproval marring his features. She waited for his reproach, unsure if he would first castigate her for _praying_ in the range room, obviously failing to heed the advice he had only just given as he delivered her to her cell the night before (a memory tickled in the back of her head. _I always heed your advice_,_ though I may not always follow it precisely)_ or interrogate her about her behavior at the feast, when she had fallen asleep and become immersed in a dream in full view of the entire order.

"Does he know that it was a wolf dream?" she wondered, then chastised herself. "Of course he does, stupid. He reads you like a parchment, like a bloody illuminated book. Rule your face!"

She mastered her expression, looking expectantly into his stern eyes, waiting for his words. When they finally came, they surprised her.

"A man would know what a girl was thinking at table last night to cause her to shudder so violently."


	6. Chapter 6

The Cat's face remained impassive as she cast her memory back to the feast, searching for some explanation of Jaqen's words. Her mind had been tossing so many different indiscretions and concerns around that she had expected him to seize upon one of those and berate her for it. _A shudder_, however, _a shudder at table_ was not immediately comprehensible to her. She dissected his words, attempting to solve the riddle. _At table_ took her to the feast, and she could envision the priests and acolytes in their positions around her, the candles burning low, casting light and shadow on plates of ruined food; bones of fowl stripped of their meat, fish heads and mussel shells piled in trenchers and on platters, pushed away. She could picture Jaqen in his seat near the head of the table, his face turned toward her, his eyes studying her with keen interest…

Then she had it, and she was bemused. Of all that he could wonder about, of all that he could question or lecture on or correct, of all the discord roiling in her head, what he had chosen to pluck out, what he wanted to know was why she had apparently visibly shuddered as she considered what her fate would be as a lady of the Seven Kingdoms, caught in the iron jaws of the game of thrones. His _most pressing_ concern was her reaction to the consideration of a completely hypothetical situation?

Her laugh was both incredulous and relieved and it served to irk him.

"A man sees no humor in the question. Perhaps a girl would share her answer so that a man may laugh as well."

She bit back her smile, chastened. His voice was even and soft but she knew him well enough not to be cozened by this. She perceived that if provoked, his response would prove to be more unpleasant than a sharp rap on the knuckles from the hilt of his dagger.

"May I ask why you want to know?" she questioned boldly.

He took a step into the room, unfolding his arms and hooking his thumbs over his sword belt with that infuriating swagger of his before answering in low tones, "A girl is having all sorts of… _interesting_ thoughts and questions of late. A man simply wonders which of these could cause a girl to lose her composure in a room full of Faceless Men _who are trained to notice every nuance and shade of a girl's behavior_."

The last bit came out as a quiet hiss, reminding Arya of a coiled viper, signaling its menace, preparing to strike.

She read the danger in his voice, and felt it in her marrow, the barest hint of a threat, but she could not conceive of its source.

He took another lazy step toward her and she held her hands up, a gesture meant to stay his advancement as well as to indicate her surrender as she began to explain herself.

When the mind considers something, _anything_, it can scrutinize several aspects at once, dancing from idea to idea and back again in the space of a breath. Years can be contemplated in a matter of moments. In this way, Arya had envisioned the trials of an entire alternate life as the grey lady of the Winterfell, trapped in the clutches of her enemies, and had found herself scourged by the possibilities within a few seconds. So much so, in fact, that it had apparently wrought an involuntary shudder. Explaining it all to Jaqen, however, could not be achieved in the space of half a dozen heartbeats.

She stalled, uncomfortable, beginning, "I'd hardly say it was a _violent_ shudder, anyway. You only noticed because you were staring at me. I don't think anyone else even saw."

Another step toward her trumpeted his impatience.

"Alright!" she capitulated. "It's just stupid. And embarrassing. I was thinking about the freedom I've had here, even with the rules and restrictions and lessons. It made me consider how my life might have differed if I'd made other choices. If I'd never used that iron coin you gave me, or, even before that, if I'd never run from Harrenhal. What if I'd never even escaped King's Landing in the first place? I thought of life in the Red Keep, surrounded by my enemies, assuming they would have even let me live. If I had survived that… that day…"

She paused, hearing Syrio's voice in her ears so clearly it was as if he and not Jaqen were standing in the room with her. Her breath caught and she closed her eyes.

_"The first sword of Braavos does not run."_

_A wooden stick splintering against cruel steel. A man in his stance, calm as still water, as brave and fierce as a lion. No, not a lion; a wolf._

_Dead men, everywhere, their blood spilling into the dust and straw over which she scrabbled, swift as a deer, quiet as a shadow. _

_A growling voice, harsh and threatening, promising to deliver her to her enemy._

_"Stick them with the pointy end," Jon's voice laughed and her desperate fingers had obeyed._

_Needle sliding through the stable boy, easy as a whisper, stained red when she pulled the steel from his gut. _

_The darkness of the deepest corridors of the keep, places made for intrigue and exploration (and escape!), running over rough stone floors past mice and cats and the skulls of dragons who knows what else._

_Fear cuts deeper than swords. _

_Plunging through sewers and into the river and through the streets of the city._

_Starving, stealing, hunting all the paltry game the putrid city could offer, a meager offering of rats and pigeons._

_A crowd of stupid, vile people, stinking and surging forward, jeering, hateful, throwing rotten vegetables and rocks and insults._

_A statue rising over the Sept, visage pious, unseeing as she grasped Needle in her trembling hand, wanting to vault, to run, to fly to him and then that sound, that sound, that sound…_

Opening her eyes, she breathed deeply, restating, "If I had survived that day, but not escaped."

He nodded, his silence indicating that she should continue.

"I thought of being forced to wear gowns, and I know that's silly, but it wasn't about the gowns, just the fact that I could lose so much freedom that I could even be forced to dress in a way I did not wish, and by people who _hated_ me. And then punished for doing things not considered ladylike, or things perceived as disloyal or threatening. I thought of them taking Needle away, and giving it to some filthy little lordling as a gift, a souvenir of the destruction of the Starks. I thought how, at my age now, I would be…"

Here, she hesitated, swallowing painfully, then continued, "I'd be marriageable and that people who wanted to exploit my claim to strengthen their own power would auction me off like livestock, settling my life for me, with no thought for my own wishes, making me the prisoner of some old Lord or his stupid son, doomed to…"

_Doomed to lie with him and have his brats to continue the legacy of the North's subjugation to the Crown, unless I could somehow find the courage to slit my own throat before the wedding_. But this she could not say aloud, her tongue stiff and unmoving, like that of a corpse.

Jaqen was silent. His posture relaxed and he leaned back against the near wall, one leg bent and his sole flat against the stones behind him. Arya relaxed as well, having said what she could say in explanation, and awaited his judgment.

"A man does not wonder at a girl's shivering," he finally said, his face inscrutable. "Still, daydreaming of a life in Westeros, thinking on these things…"

"Is not the recommended course for an acolyte in the House of Black and White?" she finished for him, allowing a trace of amusement to tinge her voice.

He knew her words were meant to be a jape, that she was purposefully understating his concern for the sake of lightening his mood with her very _Northern_ humor. He only wished she could appreciate _how much_ she was understating it.

He watched her intently, long enough that his scrutiny became uncomfortable, but she used it as the lesson she supposed it was intended to be and refused to betray her discomfort. Her stance remained relaxed, her expression passive, and she anticipated some word of instruction or command. After a few moments longer, he broke their stalemate.

"The midday meal should be ready soon," Jaqen told her dismissively, "and a girl is meant to serve her brothers today."

She inclined her head slightly toward him in a show of deference, placed her bow and quiver back in their place, and left the room.

He had other things he wished to ask and discuss with her, but he had many more things to mull over. Her revelation about where her mind had wandered to at dinner was pressing on him for two different reasons. Firstly, as he had already indicated to her, such thoughts were not like to win her friends amongst the Faceless Men who expected her to sacrifice, as they did, all that they were to become who the Many-Faced god intended them to be. Such blatant demonstrations of her disregard of this command, year after year, were bound to be seen as a sign of disrespect. The order could be very gentle with new recruits, tolerant of their peccadilloes, but only to a point. They would reach a time when these outward signs of her inability to adapt to the requirements of the order, subtle and inconsequential though they might seem to an outsider, would have ramifications. He knew it was only her great skill in so many of the areas of her training that had prevented the brothers (and sisters, few though they were) from taking action thus far. Their patience, however, was not boundless, no matter how kindly the face worn by the principle elder might look.

His second reason was more personal in nature. She had asked him to tell her of his journey to the Westerlands and he had given his promise that he would. He was still uncertain as to how much of what he had learned should be revealed to her. Now, in light of the revelation of her waking nightmare, he was more conflicted than ever. Telling her things which were sure to intensify her pull toward Westeros and the North before her training was complete seemed imprudent and unnecessarily cruel. She had just confessed the land held dangers and terrors for her she seemed only too happy to have escaped. Could he rain doubt on that happiness, telling her things he perceived would draw her toward the dangers she had miraculously and only narrowly avoided? He must decide, and quickly, which course of action to take, either revealing to her the entire truth so that she might finally know all that was at stake with each decision she endeavored to make, or censoring himself so that she was protected from the perils of her own loyalties and scruples.

And also from her own untamed thirst for revenge.


	7. Chapter 7

The Cat did not mind serving at table, or in the kitchens, or in the temple stripping the dead of anything that might be useful, but she did mind being bored. She had to invent tests and exercises and mental and physical challenges for herself during some of these obligations to make them more tolerable when the task itself became rote or mundane. Sometimes when serving a meal, she would examine each acolyte, priest and master and try to recall the details of the last three faces each had worn, in order to strengthen her memory. When lighting the candles in the temple, she would often do it with her eyes closed, using her hearing and her true seeing to tell her which candles needed attention and when the wick was flaming in order to increase the acuteness of her senses. When removing corpses to the deeper parts of the temple, she would vary her games, one day forbidding herself from allowing any part of a tall man to touch the ground once she had hoisted him upon her shoulders, or any part of a fat old lady to contact the frame of the doors through which she passed and in this way she honed her discipline. She thought of it as simply thwarting tedium but in truth, she found meaning in the tasks beyond the superficial intent; beyond simple obedience to her masters and service to Him of Many Faces. It made her unique amongst her brothers, for a reason _besides_ simply being the only girl, and it was a difference they did not always appreciate. Even her masters seemed to be confounded at times, praising her resourcefulness and motivation while rebuking her independence.

"Obedience is a choice," the Kindly Man once told her after reprimanding her gently for executing what seemed to be a complicated series of dance steps around the edges of the small dining hall during one evening meal service but actually represented an imagined and complex combat exercise in which she used a spoon as a sword and a small loaf of bread as a dagger. "You may choose to obey and remain here with us, or you may choose to live and act as you please in the household of a captain, a fisherman, or the Sealord of Braavos, either in their employ or as a wife or paramour. Say the word, child, and I shall seek you the place you desire."

The girl ignored that last part and attempted to defend herself sheepishly, mumbling, "I _was _obeying. I was told to serve and I served. I didn't spill anything and no cup was empty. It's just so dull to stand in the corner and wait to be called."

"Don't quibble, child!" he admonished. "You must learn to serve in stillness. Even in stillness there can be a great lesson."

The girl understood that there was value in stillness. Stillness and silence had been enough of a trademark for her during her assignments that she had more than earned her the epithet "the Cat" but she did not understand the lesson to which the Kindly Man referred. Lessons were active things, involving sweat, motion, decision, creation—the antithesis of stillness. Stillness was dormancy, decay, and idleness. Stillness was withering and dying. Stillness was what the corpses that came to rest upon the stones around the temple's dark fountain had sought after losing their hope or succumbing to some weakness that persuaded them that only death remained for them.

_There is only one thing we say to death_.

"Not today," she whispered to herself, earning a pitying look from the Kindly Man.

"When you truly find a moment of stillness, you will learn it is neither life nor death," he told her as though he had read her thoughts. "It is great strength and acute awareness. Who are you, child?"

"No one," she replied.

He merely shook his head sadly at her and walked away.

* * *

Serving at table after her time in the range room, Arya decided to remain as motionless as possible, concentrating on not swaying even a hair to the left or right, making her breathing so shallow and quiet that it was undetectable, and blinking as little as possible. When she noted a glass less than half-full, she moved swiftly to remedy the situation, causing no more disturbance in the surrounding air than a shadow cast by a sleeping cat. Halfway through the meal, she smirked inwardly, thinking that stillness was not so hard but even with her obvious mastery, she was missing whatever lesson the Kindly Man had indicated she should learn so very long ago when he had chastised her for fighting the Brave Companions of her memory and contemptible Kingsguard of her nightmares round the periphery of the room.

Deciding she had been quite still enough for one meal, she reverted to her habit of studying faces, this time trying to decide, in turn, what each of the diners were thinking. As her eyes skipped around the table, making judgments and determinations, her gaze settled upon a rat-faced boy directly opposite her position. As she locked onto his face (the rat-like face being his own true visage), his eyes fluttered up to meet hers, widened, then fell back to his plate, which he suddenly decided was filled with the most delicious meal he had ever eaten, hurriedly scooping heaping forkfuls of roasted onions and charred rabbit into his mouth as if he couldn't finish soon enough.

It was easy to guess at _his_ thoughts. She was certain they revolved around a particular night, immediately after she successfully completed the first assignment she had received since Jaqen departed on a ship bound for Westeros, when the rat-faced boy had seemed to crave a demonstration of her proficiency with throwing knives and she had been only too happy to oblige him.

She smirked derisively at him but then realized anyone looking at her would not have a hard time guessing _her_ thoughts, and so quickly ruled her own face. The eyes went blank, the grey of a churning sea rendered black by the dimness of the room, and the curve of her lips melted away into indifference. As she examined the boy's pointed, thin nose and too-close eyes again, she wondered if the other apprentices found themselves berated as often as she for their inability to shed their emotions thoroughly enough. Despite spending many more years in the temple than she had, the rat-faced boy seemed adept at nursing his jealousy of her. She envied his agility and skill at tumbling and acrobatics, a talent that lent itself to a particularly effective fighting style, but she did not hate him for it. Why, then, he had only had sneers for her when she demonstrated her mastery of blades, she couldn't fathom. Well, he had only had sneers until that night in the long corridor, shortly after Jaqen left. Now the sneers were replaced with a poorly disguised terror, at least when he saw her with a dagger or throwing knife on her person (which was _always_).

She thought back to the story of his life which she had learned shortly after beginning her apprenticeship; how he was part of a travelling mummer's show and was possessed of a particular gift for somersaults and stunts as well as skill and precision beyond his years for sleight of hand. When he arrived at the House of Black and White, six years old, starved and sickly, either an abandoned mouth to feed or a runaway (the story varied), the order decided his talents could be shaped into something useful. He had been training ever since. At the time of their first meeting, mere weeks after her arrival in Braavos, Arya was but one and ten. The rat-faced boy had already been training for six years. They were of an age and she had thought they might share a certain camaraderie after she saw him skulking about the darkness of the many corridors of the temple; she with her horse-face and ugly, haystack hair and he with his rat-face and awkward, gangly limbs. When she approached him as they both circulated around the statues and alcoves, lighting candles, she attempted to greet him, not really sure how one went about making friends. All of her friends (few though they were) seemed to be tossed in her path by circumstance, none of them chosen, just _becoming_; becoming then vanishing; torn away by death, by duty, by their choices which she did not accept or her choices which were really no choice at all. Sansa had always made friends so easily, her companionship coveted for her beauty and her courtesy and her easy laughs and giggles but Arya, who would rather race through the Wolfswood on horseback as though White Walkers were at her heels or tumble through the mud and peat with Nymeria, was too uncouth for the other girls of Winterfell and the capital to care much about, and too unworthy of consideration for the boys. On the King's Road with the recruits of the Night's Watch, friendship had been dangerous for _Arry_, a sure course for discovery and all that it might bring with it. When time, proximity, circumstance, and necessity had finally given her friends, Harrenhal, the Brotherhood without Banners, and the ambitions of men too strong for her to defeat and too cynical for her to comprehend had separated those friends from her.

With all her history of failure at friendship, she had still truly believed the rat-faced boy would be glad of her company. She would be someone to spar with, someone to share work, or someone to just… talk to, if only so that another's voice might help quiet the ghosts of the past. In this way, she might be able to rebuild her pack. But when she had approached him, he met her eyes with something that was too close to hatred for her to feel there was any chance of them becoming friendly sparring partners or part of the same pack.

"You're the girl," he said in the common tongue, voice thick with an almost palpable revulsion, pale face pinched under his dark hair. "I've heard your name around here. The masters talked about you, Arya _Stark_."

He nearly choked on her name, and she did not understand why. She wasn't even sure why he would know it. Why had it been spoken in his hearing? Why had it been spoken _at all_ when she was told constantly, repeatedly, and monotonously to _forget_ her own name? Confused and discomfited, she backed away without a word, turned heel and ran. That had been nearly five years ago and every now and again, the memory returned to her, though she was no closer to solving the mystery of the boy's contempt than she was the first day she recognized it in his eyes and his sneer. And now it was buried under a multitude of new wrongs, layer upon layer of insults and distrust; incidents during training in which one or both of them ended up more bruised or bloodied than was strictly necessary or sanctioned; scornful remarks in place of congratulations following accomplishments and successes; subtle sabotage, not serious enough to draw the attention and ire of the masters, but irritating enough to set her teeth on edge. All these she endured, and in truth, some of it she wrought, yet she was no wiser as to the original seed of animosity. She tended to suppose it was because she was a girl and though that was not unheard of within the order, it was still a rarity. It had been her experience, especially before leaving Westeros, that most males, be they men grown or green boys, tended to disdain the skills and intellect of women, believing them good for only a handful of purposes, foremost of which was spitting out children to carry on the family name or to trade to other houses for gold and power (under the very courteous and respectable guise of a _marriage contract)_. Because girls not yet flowered were useless for even that, they received even less consideration, being no more than afterthoughts in the hierarchy of power. Even here, in the temple where very little value was placed on one's gender, she supposed some of her brothers might hate her simple for being _a_ _her, _and might continue to do so until it had been trained out of them.

While waiting for the meal to end, the girl focused on the rat-faced boy once again, searching his expression for the hundredth time, looking for some clue to explain the antipathy, now mutual after the years of mockery and meanness. Finding none, she dismissed him from her thoughts and slipped silently around the table to refill wine glasses and water goblets once again.

* * *

While the girl served, Jaqen walked in the temple courtyard garden with the Kindly Man, relishing the coolness radiating from the dark stone of the walls in the shade. It was tranquil here, quiet; free from the tension of the range room he had only just left after inspecting a girl's marksmanship as the sound of her fading footfalls echoed down the corridor (he smirked at that; _a girl knows how to move in silence_. That he was hearing her signalled a purposeful carelessness, her own small act of rebellion, a sign only he would read). The center of the target was home to all of her arrows, the accuracy undeniable in the noiselessness and solitude of the empty chamber. He had wondered if it would remain so in the thick of battle or while lying flat on a roof in the boiling heat awaiting a target who might take hours to come into a sniper's range. The Kindly Man finished speaking and the heavy silence of the courtyard brought Jaqen's attention back to their conversation. They were discussing the timing of the next initiation, deciding who was ready for their final test and who still required more training. When the Kindly Man suggested the brutish boy who had bested Arya with his tourney sword, Jaqen felt compelled to state his concerns.

"The boy seems unable to master his emotions in the face of fairly minor stresses," Jaqen judged. "A man believes he must learn this simple lesson first before he is ready to leave the house and charge forth into the world as a Faceless Man."

"Do you?" the Kindly Man returned mildly. "What makes you say so?"

"A man witnessed the boy serving at the feast last night. A few words from a small girl were enough to send a boy scampering away as if being threatened by wolves."

The Kindly Man chuckled, suggesting, "Perhaps he was... Yes, our little wolf has certainly earned the dread of her brothers."

Jaqen's face remained passive, but he asked the question that had crossed his mind last night to the man in the house most likely to know the answer. There was nothing in the House of Black and White that remained hidden to the Kindly Man's eye.

"A man has noted this... _dread_," Jaqen acknowledged. "He wonders what occurred during his absence to inspire it?"

"A most elegant show of skill and a most disappointing lack of restraint," was the Kindly Man's cryptic reply.


	8. Chapter 8

After clearing the small dining hall following the midday meal, the girl was free to do as she pleased, already having completed her prescribed lessons for the day with the waif and a little extra training on her own with the longbow. Of course, there was always a chance that someone would drop from the rafters in front of her with a sword, forcing her into an impromptu duel or whisper questions to her from dark alcoves and dim corners as she passed, forcing her to think on her feet and answer. Instruction never _really_ ended in the temple. Still, having no assigned duties allowed her the time she needed to sort out her thoughts. She left the kitchen after helping Umma finish cleaning and storing the dishes and headed for the courtyard garden to sit and think in the shade of the lemon and fig trees. She arrived without incident and found that she had her choice of any of the scattered benches upon which to sit, both black and white marble surfaces warmed by the afternoon heat. She sat down heavily and slumped over, placing her bent elbows upon her knees and resting her chin in her cupped hands. This posture caused her thick braid to slide over one shoulder, laying her neck bare. She felt the warm breeze blow across it and relaxed into her thoughts.

She reviewed all that had occurred since Jaqen returned to Braavos yesterday morning (_only a day! Seven hells!_) and found herself dwelling on the details of their sparring after the training tourney, trying to pick apart the memory and discover if she had done anything at all that might be misconstrued as _flirting_. Satisfied that there was nothing and Umma must be going mad from the constant heat of the kitchen, she was soon reliving the dance itself, relishing her memory of the clashing steel, recalling the graceful yet powerful move he had used to ultimately disarm her (and trying to commit it to memory so that she might use it herself in the future). She remembered the way he had looked at her-no, _through_ her-with an almost melancholy stare as he commented on her hair. But it wasn't really a comment on her hair, or her looks, she knew. _It was something about… something like…_

Here her mind scrambled to disentangle the ball of emotions that had wound itself into her chest at his words (and at his expression). She began to understand that he meant she was growing up, or, more precisely, was now a woman grown, and that this knowledge caused him to feel… _something_. Sadness? Consternation? Or, pity? Did he seem, perhaps, a little afraid for her? Or maybe it was disappointment that she had reached this age without yet mastering all the competencies she would need to take her vows and enter the order, no longer an acolyte but his equal. Even when she could read him, and know that he had a feeling or a thought about her, he still confounded her ability to interpret that thought. He was _maddening!_ She resolved to stop torturing herself with speculation and just ask him about it the next time she saw him. She needed to use her time to understand her wolf dream and worrying about a silly _look_ on Jaqen's face was taking up entirely too much of her day.

The sunlight filtered through the leaves of the lemon tree which sheltered her and dappled the skin on the back of her neck with warm kisses. She shut her eyes, enjoying the feeling, and saw Nymeria behind her closed lids. Nymeria, so fierce and so large; so much more powerful than the pup she had shunned after the incident with Mycah and Joffrey. She still felt pangs of guilt, even after all this time, when she thought of the rock she had thrown; the yelp of pain when it had struck Nymeria on the nose. But the Nymeria that had appeared in her dream, _that_ Nymeria was unlikely to be harmed by something so ordinary as a sharp rock. She had been brilliant and terrifying and majestic. She had been a _Queen _of winter and the awesome dread of Ice and the noble heart of all the Starks that came before the one who had dreamed of her. She had saved those children, she and her pack (the part of her that was still Arya Stark felt relieved that Nymeria had created a pack for herself; relieved, but also a little sad.)

And Nymeria had seen Gendry, and it seemed there had passed between them some sort of recognition and with it, a spark of understanding.

Why was she dreaming of Gendry? She hadn't thought of him in months and months, not even sparing a fleeting second to consider her memories of him. Suddenly, upon Jaqen's return, she was having wolf dreams and Gendry dreams and distractions from her lessons the likes of which she hadn't experienced since she was a new acolyte who had just earned her black and white robe. She was sure it was only such a momentary diversion that had allowed the large bear to disarm her yesterday after she had managed to dispatch all of his fellows from the tourney.

"Don't make excuses," she admonished herself. "It doesn't matter if you have the skill or the strength or the superior position. If you allow yourself to be disarmed due to a _distraction_, you'll be just as dead."

She sat upright and stared off at the fountain across the garden, listening to the gentle sound of water falling on water, marveling at how _real_ the dream had been—how real they always were. She had smelled the blood and fear just as surely as she could smell the damp earth now beneath her feet. She had heard the growls and screams in her ears just as truly as she heard the splashing water of the fountain before her. She had felt the rise of fur on her back under the heat of those Baratheon blue eyes just as intensely as…

As she now felt a gaze upon her back.

The Cat leapt to her feet, drawing her dagger and whirling, ready to battle whichever master had crept upon her, unnoticed due to her reverie, but now discovered. She crouched, fingers tingling with adrenaline, eyes wide and searching. She didn't have to look far. Leaning casually against the lemon tree, arms crossed over his chest, stood Jaqen, expression unconcerned. He stood a mere two paces from the now empty bench.

"Why does a girl threaten a man with her ridiculously small blade?"

"Why does a man sneak up on a girl, trying to catch her off guard and take her unawares?" she retorted, heart still hammering in her chest. "Afraid of a fair fight?"

"Your words wound a man more than that tiny dagger ever could," he replied in mock sadness.

"Let's test your theory," she said in a dangerously low tone.

Jaqen unfolded his arms and stood up straight, sighing at her.

"A girl mistakes a man's intentions. There is no lesson here. A man does not wish to duel."

She rose from her crouched position with a distinctly feline stretch and asked, "Then why are you here, sneaking around?"

"A man does not _sneak_," came his indignant reply, then smirking, he added, "Is it a man's fault that his steps are lighter than a tiny girl's bovine stomps?"

She glared at him, but remembering her far-from-noiseless retreat from the range room earlier, started to laugh her throaty laugh. The sound caused Jaqen's amused smirk to widen.

"Then why _are_ you here?" she pressed.

"Looking for you, lovely girl," he returned lightly, provoking her purposefully by not truly answering the question.

"Yes, by _why_?" she demanded with exasperation.

"A man is curious about a certain incident being discussed by a girl's brothers; an incident so terrifying that a girl's fellows seem to scatter whenever she appears."

Her eyes met his from under a wrinkled brow, thinking about his demand to know what had caused her to shudder at dinner, and now this question of the _throwing knife _incident. She quirked up one eyebrow and parroted, "A man is having all sorts of _interesting_ thoughts and questions of late."

"Impudent girl!" he declared. "Still, a man would hear the tale."

"Don't you already know it?" she asked, assuming the Kindly Man or one of the other elders had already complained to him about her, directing him to take her in hand.

Jaqen shrugged, his voice like a deep purr, saying, "A man would hear it from _your_ lips."

He moved from behind the bench as she dropped back down onto her seat. He stood in front of her reclining form, waiting for her to tell him what he wanted to know.

"It happened not long after you left Braavos," she began.

_She was given an assignment by the Kindly Man. Someone had prayed for the death of a certain ship's captain, and she was to answer this prayer. She had already completed several of these assignments without incident (the Kindly Man was fond of sending acolytes out to do the bidding of the Many-Faced god within the borders of Braavos, saving the assignments that required travel to other lands for the more experienced masters), so it wasn't until she was apprised of the _special requests_ surrounding this assignment that her interest was piqued. It was important to the one who had prayed that this ship's captain meet his end by way of a dagger to the heart-the captain's _own_ dagger, as it happened-and that the death look like an accident._

_"A blade through the heart," she clarified, "and it's meant to look _accidental?"

_The Kindly Man nodded once._

_"Seven hells! That defies logic!" she declared._

_"If you would rather I assign this task to one of your brothers, I understand," the Kindly Man replied dolefully. "I had believed you clever enough to solve this problem, but now I see I was wrong."_

_Of course, she had bristled at that and insisted she would do this thing, no need to involve one of her brothers. _

_In the end, it had proven easier than she could have imagined. The tavern frequented by the captain happened to be the rowdiest, most disreputable one in all of Braavos, always crowded with drunken sailors, boisterous whores, and infamous pickpockets. She chose the most crowded hour to slip in, wearing the face of a begging urchin, and relieved the captain of his dagger as he sat, deep in his cups, at a table with a tavern wench balanced on his lap. The Cat slid through the crowd to the other side of the tavern, passing a table of vain Bravos, saying as she did, "Those Lyseni pirates across the room are claiming Bravos are no better than poxy whores."_

_As the brightly attired, extremely drunk Bravos rose from their table and started across the room with drawn blades, she removed the purse of coin from one man's pocket and placed it in another's, loudly proclaiming, "You should give that back!" and drawing the attention of the first man to his loss. Fists were immediately thrown and she continued sowing the seeds of chaos by pulling one whore's hair, hard, and making it seem as if another whore standing behind her had done the deed. Within mere moments, the place had erupted into a roiling sea of flying fists, hacking knives, and slashing swords. She was enveloped by the din and roar of discord, her own glorious creation. The captain remained at his table, but stood to avoid being crushed under the weight of one of the Lyseni pirates who was fighting with one of the Bravos and stumbled back into the captain's chair. The tavern wench plopped heavily from his lap to the floor with a squeal, throwing her arms up to shield herself from the kicking and stomping boots of the men surrounding her._

_There were perhaps thirty bodies, moving, thrashing, falling, or lunging between the Cat's position and the captain's, and she could only see him intermittently, a picture of his arm above the shoulder of a brawling whore, a glimpse of his belly framed between the dueling forms of a sailor and a Bravo, a peek of his throat visible when the tavern owner came out and barreled over a pirate to drag him to the door, intent on tossing him out on his ear, as if that would remotely salve the pandemonium. She drew upon all of her focus, all of the lessons she had learned in her time in the House of Black and White, and her confidence in her own abilities and seized the exact moment the captain's chest came into her view, throwing his blade with precision and force, threading the ever-changing eye of the needle with cold steel before it could reshape and hide her target. She buried the captain's own dagger hilt-deep into his heart._

_"Valar morghulis," she whispered as he clutched at the knife in surprise. Without waiting to watch him breathe his last, she slunk around the edge of the room, deftly dodging blows and blades, and made her way out of the tavern and back to the temple._

_Upon her arrival, she nearly collided with the Kindly Man as she burst through the weirwood and ebony doors, her success tumbling out of her mouth as soon as she spotted him._

_He nodded solemnly and asked her to walk with him as she explained how the thing was done. They moved through the antechamber of the temple and headed down the dim, wide corridor leading to the tranquil pool, past the many pale statues the lined the walk. She told him of stealing the captain's knife, instigating the tavern fight, and how the deed was finally accomplished, sparing no detail. She knew he wanted to critique her performance and chastise her for any superfluous actions or unnecessary risks. To her profound surprise (and delight), however, she found that he had no criticism to offer. When she had finished her report, he only offered her a mild look._

_"Well done," he said simply. "You may make a Faceless Man yet."_

_She fought to keep the smile she sensed being born of the feeling of triumph in her belly from bursting forth onto her face._

_"Who are you, child?"_

_"No one," she answered without hesitation._

_This time, he had no reply for her but merely walked away._

_It wasn't until later that she realized her conversation with the Kindly Man had been overheard by one of the other acolytes. She was leaving the training room, having hacked at straw dummies for what seemed like hours with a blunted blade in an attempt to drain the adrenaline still buzzing inside of her after her success and the most favorable reaction yet from the Kindly Man. Prior to taking on the dummies with a sword, she had peppered them with her own knives, deceptively small and wickedly sharp, pulled from their leather sheaths on her assassin's belt. As she left the training room, happily exhausted, she was wearing the belt still, a leather strap slung over one shoulder and lying diagonally across her chest with two dozen shallow, side faced pockets, both front and back, meant to hold the blades she favored. She pulled the wooden door closed behind her. __When she turned to leave, rat-faced boy was upon her, laughing maliciously in her face, saying something about how nice it must be to have the compliments of the Kindly Man for what amounted to nothing more than dumb luck. _

_She shrugged him off, saying, "Luck had nothing to do with it. I intended to give the gift to the captain and I did."_

_The boy laughed incredulously, sneering, "You threw a knife into a crowd of thirty people and didn't manage to hit a single one of them but instead hit the captain? If that's not luck, I don't know what is. What's more, it's stupidity! You could have killed the wrong person and lost the knife in the process! Did the _great and magnificent Cat_ have a plan for that possibility?"_

_"I didn't need to plan for that possibility. I knew I would succeed," she told him matter-of-factly, walking down the long corridor, leaving him seething in front of the training room door._

_"The only thing you Starks _succeed_ at is getting your heads taken off your shoulders!" he spat after her._

_She had already retreated at least thirty feet down the dim passageway, but his words rang clear in her ears and they stopped her dead in her tracks. Snarling, she spun around like a whirlwind, plucking one of the thin blades from her belt as she did, and hurled it at the boy before he could react to her motion. It flew from her fingertips as instinctively as a dragon spits fire, sighing through the air like the breath taken after a maiden's first kiss, obeying her will and flying along the path she desired. The soft thump of sharp steel meeting wood was unmistakable, and the rat-faced boy found his sleeve pinned to the door at the wrist, the flesh of his arm unmarked._

_He gaped at her, impossibly far away, features hidden by the dimness of the corridor, then started to shout something. His cries were cut off by steel parting the grain of the door three, then four more times, blindingly fast, now pinning both sleeves to the wooden door, rendering him unable to move either arm. She gazed at him for a moment, examining him as casually as she would examine a tapestry hanging on the wall, then turned on her heel and stalked off. The boy gathered his courage and screamed after her to release him, threatening her, barely able to make out her form now in the guttering torch-light. A second later, she answered him with another knife, turned sideways, sinking deep into the wood just above his skull, the flat of the blade gently vibrating, patting his head like a mother comforting a disconsolate child._


	9. Chapter 9

Jaqen listened to her recounting of the tale with interest. He knew the girl was not the sort to overstate her own skills and he also knew the gist of the affair from various comments made by his brothers, but still he found the description of the feats incredible. His own talent with throwing knives was great but he doubted he could have accomplished what she had just described. It led him to wonder if she had some special kinship with the instruments; if they performed for her in ways they would not for others, bending to her will as the steel in her blood sang out to steel of the blades. Was it some vestige of power gifted to her people from the old gods? Some power once common amongst the First Men and the Children of the Forest, long lost to the world except for the tiny spark that burned within this one snowy girl? As she finished speaking, he shook his head in wonder and studied her face in the dappled light, lacy patterns daintily filtering into the garden through the leaves of the fruit trees.

"Why do you look at me like you're sad all the time?" she asked suddenly.

He was surprised by the sound of her voice, curiously prodding him to reveal the thing he was not yet sure he wished to tell.

"Some thoughts, a man would keep for himself," he murmured.

His secrecy both frustrated her and impressed her. Here, she had just performed like Old Nan, telling a story in excruciating detail simply because he had asked. And then there was their encounter from earlier today, when she had prattled on about what might happen to her if she returned home to Westeros, detailing her fears about life as a highborn lady and heir to the North in the clutches of unscrupulous men. Yet despite her candor, he would not answer one simple question; a question she knew she had every right to ask, with an answer she felt she had every right to know.

She had learned to guard her thoughts, her face and her voice to a great extent but she still felt bare in Jaqen's presence. Maybe it was because she needed someone to whom she _could_ talk and Jaqen was the person she trusted most. Or maybe it was because he had known most of her iterations, having seen her as Arry and Arya; a mouse and a wolf pup; a lovely girl and an evil child; and then had given her the means to become no one. Remembering sharply the instant he had handed her the iron coin, she stopped to consider the meaning behind that one act, recognizing the faith he had shown in her; a belief he must have had that she would rise and become something more than she was. She did not understand it at the time, when she was just a stupid little girl, but she grasped it now and loved him fiercely for it.

She glanced up at him and sighed deeply. He laughed lightly at her seriousness, giving her one of his teasing smiles.

"I wish _I_ could do that," she muttered, more to herself than him. She turned her head aside, pointing her chin toward her shoulder to avoid his eyes, a subtle movement that bared her white neck and showed her exquisite, pale profile, reminding him again how unconscious she was of her own beauty.

"What does a girl wish she could do?"

She paused for a moment, then answered, "Keep my secrets from you."

He regarded her with amusement and asked, "What secrets does a Cat have that a man should not know?"

She glanced sideways at him, lifting her steely eyes to his, peering through her dark lashes, a playful smile starting to dance at one corner of her mouth. _Little imp_!

"If I told you," she said slyly, "they wouldn't be secrets anymore."

He didn't reply, so busy was he marveling at her. Her hands braced against the bench, fingers curved lightly over its back edge. Her head tilted just so and her freshly braided hair trailed over one shoulder. She was so very lovely. Her eyes, clear and piercing, were the color of the Northern sky under which she had been born.

"With such a look, a girl could own most men, _and_ their secrets," he told her, taking her chin in hand and turning her face to examine it more closely.

He found it hard to look upon her pale cheek and ignore the desire to protect her that grew stronger with each passing moment. She looked for all the world like some great, dark beauty from the tales of knights and valor favored by the young girls in Western houses. He had to remind himself that none of those ladies could match this one lovely girl in wit, grace, or beauty and most of their gallant knights could not hope to answer her swordsmanship or her fearlessness. She would need those qualities in the days to come when he would be unable to teach her further or protect her. Not that she would allow him to protect her…

She absorbed his comments and her face grew sour, distant voices echoing in her ears. _Arya Horseface. Lumpy Head. Ugly little boy. Wild beast. Discourteous, unkempt girl. _She shook her head stiffly, knocking his hand away from her chin.

"I will thank you not to mock me. I work diligently to improve those things I can. I even grew my hair long, at _your_ suggestion, I might add. I cannot help that the gods did not grace me with beauty and natural charm. I think my blade skills make up for it some. I hope eventually they will _more _than make up for it."

"You mistake a man," he assured her softly. "No mockery was meant."

She gave him a suspicious look, her drawn brow clearly communicating her disbelief.

He laughed at her then, saying, "Look upon a man's face and search it for the truth in his words."

She raised her eyes to his, her own features implacable, and studied him. When she said nothing, he continued.

"A man was led to believe that a girl was given her eyes back long ago. How can you be so perceptive in some matters, but remain so blind in those which concern yourself?"

She had no answer for him.

* * *

She had dreamed of Nymeria again. Her skin prickled even to think of the wolf here inside the temple, so incongruous were the two. The serenity and damp coolness she felt in the main chamber, even as she removed those who had come to seek the gift in the night, clashed uncomfortably with the thrill of the cold night air in the forest, ruffling her fur as she raced through the trees… as _Nymeria_ raced through the trees, growls ripping through her from deep inside as she pursued her prey. She felt so _alive_ after the dream, she could almost _taste_ the warm blood and meat…

As she carried the half-starved corpse of a young woman from the far side of the pool to the corridor leading to the passage below, she wondered if these dreams were meant to inform her somehow. Were they born of memories alone, the memories she was urged regularly to forget? Was this her Arya-ness trying to leave her, given up in the misty form of dreams to the wind to be carried away? Could Nymeria and the North be _dreamed_ out of her? Or were the dreams a creation of the desire to _not_ forget, designed by the part of her that wished to remain _her_, burning that self into her brain with such permanence that it could never be left behind? The feeling of _being_ Nymeria was just so strong, it felt as if she was supposed to understand something or learn something or…

"Or they're just stupid dreams, you silly girl," she grumbled under her breath, pushing open the door to the chamber where she would strip the thin woman of anything useful.

As she set about her work, her mind wandered back to the dream. There was nothing identifiable about the forest, but she knew it wasn't the Wolfswood-no snow on the ground. As she picked over the dead woman's clothes, not expecting to find much but intending to remove whatever was there, she found a small dagger in the woman's pocket. It was not particularly fine, but was still an odd thing for a poor woman of Braavos to be carrying into the House of Black and White. The Cat placed it in her pocket, intending to take it to the armory when her work was done, wondering if the wood in which Nymeria's pack had been hunting was the same one she had seen in her previous dream; the one around the Inn where Gendry and the children had been fighting. She removed the woman's shoes and thought that even at full speed, the pack could not have travelled far in the few days since she had last dreamed of them. She shook her head in disgust, wondering why it _would_ be the same, why a _dream-wolf_ would be concerned with particular territory or would need to even move in a logical way. _It was just a dream._

In this way, she went about her work, completing the task of moving and stripping corpses, sorting their things (now the Many-Faced god's things) all while pondering her dream and mocking herself for every thought she had about it.

She folded breeches, skirts and shifts as she allowed herself to think about Nymeria outside of her dream. Nymeria was still alive, the girl had no doubt—no direwolf could be threatened by anything the South could wield against her (thoughts of Grey Wind and Robb stirred in her mind and she squelched them, refusing to see such a horror as anything other than an anomaly. Nymeria was not locked up, trapped and surrounded by thousands of men, armed and armored, with a single, hideous purpose. She was free, and would be full grown now, the size of a great pony, maybe larger. She could never succumb to what befell Grey Wind).

Arya grimaced in the low light of the quiet room, her thoughts betraying her efforts to forget, to become no one and leave the direwolf and the North behind. It was so tiring to constantly contain and deny the winter in her veins. She wondered if there was another fate for her, one that would bring her to Nymeria's side, then laughed inwardly, because the first obstacle, the simplest of all, was one that she wasn't sure she could overcome. She was in _Braavos._ How would she get to back home?

There was no Westerosi coin, no gold dragon or copper, no motto or secret phrase in the common tongue that might convince a man of White Harbor or Dragon Stone or the Iron Islands to bear a lone girl safely back home, across the water, to the North. She was a fine swimmer, but the Narrow Sea was more of a challenge than she could overcome. She had thought of it before (though less and less as the years passed), how she could go home. Mostly though, she struggled to smother such thoughts, dismissing them with a declaration to herself that she was _no one_ and _no one _did not return to a home she no longer had. But sometimes… sometimes when the Kindly Man chastised her in his way, calling her a liar, saying she held onto the high walls of Winterfell still, she considered his offer to release her from her obligations to the order. He would usually tell her he could find her a suitor (some fat, rich Braavosi who might like a young, foreign beauty for a wife, to lay beneath him and bear his fat children) or perhaps a job, a place in a lord's household, cooking or tending his daughters. It was never the situation he offered that tempted her (she had no intention of marrying anyone or taking care of someone else's children) but the freedom—the freedom to begin her quest, the one she still thought of in the night, long after the others had drifted off to sleep. The quest with no purpose but death.

_Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei._

_"_Valar morghulis_," _she whispered, the hairs on her neck tickling her.

Too late, she realized, grabbing the small dagger she had found on the first corpse from her pocket and whirling around. Before she could lift it, she had been thrown against the wall, sharp point of a blade digging into her throat under her chin.

"A girl was not paying attention," Jaqen tut-tutted.

"Gods, Jaqen! You almost scared me out of my wits!" she seethed.

"A man would have to assume a girl was _using_ her wits first."

She frowned at his insult, struggling against his grip, thinking to poke him with the dagger still clutched in her left hand. He dug his thumb into the soft spot in her wrist that he had taught her to target and her hand betrayed her, releasing the dagger. She looked at him murderously as the knife clattered against the stone floor.

"Why are you creeping up on me? I'm meant to be taking care of the corpses!"

"Meant to be taking care of the corpses?" he scoffed. "Does this mean a girl has no need to stay alert? Does death only come when a girl is not too busy for it? Will her enemies wait for her to be ready before they strike?"

She glared at him but said nothing.

"A girl must always keep her head about her," he lectured her as he withdrew the blade, "lest she lose it."


	10. Chapter 10

The Cat wore her own face but kept it well hidden, strolling about the crowded market, weaving through the throngs of people perusing the goods offered in the stalls. She had donned the dress and veil of a wealthy widow of Pentos, a bit of mummery she was able to employ after discovering mourning garb while searching the piles and piles of clothing in the dark chambers below the temple fountain. It did not surprise her to find widow's attire amongst the rags and shifts and tunics collected over the years by the Faceless Men; after all, who had more reason to seek the gift than the bereaved? What had surprised her was how unaccountably comfortable the dress was; lightweight, dark cloth soft against her skin, breathing so that she was not overly hot in the crowd. If her dresses had been this comfortable as a girl, she might have developed a tolerance for wearing them. And the best part was the veil—sheer enough for her to see well, opaque enough to hide her features, and all without requiring the blood sacrifice and nightmares that inevitably came with borrowing a face from the repository.

Not that the Cat objected to a little pain and a few nightmares for the wonder of being someone completely different from time to time, but every now and again, it was nice to just be… _comfortable. _She did not take the time to consider why she had been drawn to the widow's clothes in the first place, that she had been in mourning for nearly half her life; first mourning Bran's broken body then selfishly for the loss of her bastard brother to the realm; mourning for her sacrifice of Nymeria and the unjust slaying of Lady; mourning for the loss of so many of the men of her household whose faces she had known since the beginning of memory; mourning for her father; mourning for the loss of friendships and innocence; her mother, Robb, Grey Wind, Bran, Rickon... It was no wonder that she felt so _comfortable_ in this soft dress and dark veil.

She laughed bitterly to herself, realizing how relative comfort was. When wending her way up the King's Road as one of Yoren's _boys_, comfort was finding a bush far enough away from prying eyes to make her water without fearing discovery but close enough that she didn't run an inordinate risk of being eaten by a wolf. When escaping from Harrenhal on a stolen horse, racing for her life with Hot Pie and Gendry in tow, comfort was anything more substantial than acorn paste for supper. While travelling with the Hound, she had found small comfort, at least briefly, in shortening her prayer by one name: the Tickler. Here in Braavos, comfort was someone else's soft clothes and her own face.

She wondered what sort of pain was associated with wearing a completely glamoured face; a face conjured from the mist in an instant but so convincing a cloak that no one would ever guess the difference between real and false. Acolytes were not trained in this art—it was reserved for masters and priests, those who had spoken their vows to the Many-Faced god and the order, and they could take the mask on and off as easily as she put on and pulled off a glove. Easier, possibly. But there was a price to be paid for it. She did not know what that price was (though not for lack of asking), but felt it must be significant. More than a trickle of blood and some bad dreams, at least.

Her attention was drawn to an apple-cheeked girl, perhaps twenty years old, with raven ringlets and soft, brown doe eyes. The Cat was to give her the gift prayed for by her master; the master who was also her lover but whose wife no longer wished to tolerate his proclivities. The girl was so vibrant, the Cat marveled at the inconstant nature of life and the undeniable ascendency of death. This girl, so pink, so energetic, so unaware, would soon be no more.

_Valar morghulis._

Still, the Cat supposed it was a kindness in a way. Unfair, but kind. The man might have done the deed himself, but then a _man_ would not give up something he truly wanted because another told him he must. Despite his lack of gumption, the Cat supposed he must actually love this girl. Why else pay a small fortune to be rid of her in the most painless way possible? Sweetsleep, the dose too high even for a man thrice her size to survive, would lace the small package of candied figs the girl was sent to purchase with coin given her for just such a treat by the one who loved her most of all.

The Cat imagined a scenario where the master had reason to believe his wife would harm the girl, perhaps marring her beauty with some vile torture born of jealousy. A gentle poison, one that would preserve her blushing cheeks and crimson lips, certainly seemed preferable to a slow death at the hands of one who hated her. She shrugged to herself, supposing it was not hers to question.

As the curly-headed servant left the stall with her small basket of figs in hand, the cat-who-was-a-widow collided with her, gave a convincingly startled yelp, and then profusely apologized in faintly Pentoshi-accented Braavosi (she was proud of that bit. She had an ear for accents; the waif had told her so). The deed done, a small glass vial was slipped effortlessly back in the pocket of the mourning gown with no one the wiser. It was really too easy.

The apple-cheeked girl sadly smiled at the grieving widow with the sort of sincere pity that only one truly in love can radiate when confronted with one whose love had been lost to her forever.

"Oh, no, dear lady," the girl said, waving off the widow's apologies, "pardon me!"

The girl patted the widow's hand and bounced away, aiming for her master's house, where she could enjoy her candied treat and perhaps a treat of a different sort. The widow did not watch her go, feeling no need to bother with her any further. The lively girl was no longer part of this world, though she did not yet know it.

Unlike previous times she had been tapped to deliver the gift, the Cat did not feel the strong urge to immediately return to the temple and report her success. Indeed, with this commission, she would not be certain of success until the Kindly Man reported it to her. That was the way with poisons. They were sometimes necessary, even preferable, but they lacked the immediate finality of a well-placed sword point. She would be told at some juncture that the girl was dead, likely with a suitably understated turn of phrase typical of the Kindly Man's vernacular (she imagined him for a moment, saying, "There was a beautiful young maid who I hear did not awaken this morning" or "The fruit sellers are lamenting the loss of one of their favorite customers") but until then, dwelling on it seemed a waste of time.

Instead, she whirled around, her soft skirts fluttering about her ankles, and left the market, bound for the docks. She considered buying a small basket of candied figs to take with her, but then thought the better of it, leaving the market empty-handed. It was not a long walk and soon she was enjoying the sting of the salty air in her nose while watching the bustle of the Braavosi port; the loading and unloading of ships; the taking on and disembarking of passengers; the sailors and captains relishing the feel of solid land under their feet for a short time before setting sail once again.

She loved this scenery. It reminded her of arriving in Braavos, a refugee with safe passage guaranteed by an iron coin and the words taught to her by a man unwilling to leave her without a means for escaping a land that had long brutalized her. It reminded her of the simplicity of life with Brusco and his daughters, selling his catch for him and having a home to return to where she could share a bed and keep warm with girls who did not chide her about lack of manners and her poor stitches. It reminded her of performing a duty carried out by her father before her—punishing a black brother who had forsaken his vows, a deserter of the Night's Watch. It reminded her of her thoughts of finding a ship to bear her back home.

She pushed that thought back down in the way she had perfected over the years. She would not think about home—she had no home. Or rather, her home was now with her brothers, with Umma, with the waif, with Jaqen… Everything else was just a dream; a useless distraction from the life she had _chosen_. Behind the veil, her face tensed. _Nymeria_. It felt like a betrayal to call her a _distraction._ But no, she hadn't meant it like that—just that the dreams were a distraction. And they _were_, as were the thoughts and feelings they inevitably bore upon her awakening. When she thought of her wolf, her focus softened and she felt an almost… tugging sensation. It was as if she was being pulled back across the Narrow Sea, towards Westeros, overland and through the forest, into Nymeria's very skin. Then, without fail, Jaqen would be there with some reminder that her loss of concentration was going to get her killed.

She refused to believe she could be that stupid. By the time she was allowed to take her vows and be sent into the world as a messenger of the Many-Faced god, she would have not only become a master of death but also the master of her dreams. They would not plague her forever. She was sure of it.

The widow looked out over the harbor and was surprised to see _The Dragon's Daughter_ still in port. It was the ship upon which Jaqen had secured his passage home. They must still be awaiting their cargo to carry back to Dragonstone. She wondered what from Braavos Stannis' people craved—lemons, most like. Well, there were plenty of those to be had. She watched as a sailor climbed aboard then noted how he stopped short immediately upon gaining the deck and swiftly moved aside. He was making way for another man, ready to disembark; a tall, lean man, with reddish hair and a single white streak blowing across his face.

_What's he doing here?_

The widow's mind raced, seizing upon explanation after explanation, trying to find the one that did not mean he was sent to spy on her, to make sure she was up to the simple task of poisoning some figs. _Gods!_ Did the Kindly Man think she was one and ten again? This assignment was far simpler than even her first; surely he was not in doubt…

Jaqen was now on the dock, walking swiftly away from her, carrying a long, narrow object upright, propped against his shoulder. It appeared to be some sort of wooden case. He did not spare her a single look.

"He wasn't sent to follow me," she realized. He had obviously retrieved something from the ship; something he had left stored there for over a week. But why? And where was he going now?

Her moment of hesitation lasted only the space of a breath and then her light footsteps carried her swiftly forward as she reasoned, "There's only one way to find out."


	11. Chapter 11

Through her years of training, the girl had learned that stealth, nimbleness, and a sort of keen awareness of all the moving parts of any situation were key to the expert application of a Faceless Man's specialized art. Any clumsy scout might blunder upon an enemy's camp and know then where his commander must attack, but his chances of secreting the information away to friendly hands would have been compromised by his carelessness. The widow was no clumsy scout. Though she had a reputation for her ability to slip down dark corridors and in and out of dim rooms without so much as the suggestion of a whispering footstep to betray her movements, it was in the crowd that her abilities truly shone. There was a genius to remaining unseen in a crowd-an innate knowledge of pacing; of the right facial expressions displayed at the right times; of who made a good shield and who drew too much attention to stand near.

As she followed behind Jaqen, keeping her distance, she expertly bowed her head in gracious acknowledgement of the kindly reverences paid her by those inclined to speak courteously to a passing widow of her station. She averted her face in mock anxiety and quickened her step when greeted by those less courteous (sailors suggesting a way they might allay a widow's loneliness and grief) as a wealthy widow of Pentos was like to do. She allowed her gaze to be drawn to the children running about the streets as if longing for children of her own. She did all this while keeping Jaqen's quickly retreating form in her sight. He did not turn around but even this she believed to be due to her effective mummery. If she were strictly following him without thought of blending in, she felt certain he would sense something was amiss and she would be discovered.

King's Landing had its Street of Steel. In Braavos, there was the Armorers District, a collection of armorers' shops and smithies that lined the cobblestone street which flanked the Long Canal. The district's border started opposite the third bridge spanning the canal and ran the length of the waterway to the seventh bridge. The sheer number of shops put the Street of Steel to shame, but how else were the craftsmen to satisfy the demands of the numerous water dancers and pugnacious _Bravos_ for weapons? Not to mention the sailors and ships' captains that required repair or replacement of weapons damaged or lost while out to sea. Even the beautiful courtesans were known to carry delicate daggers with ornate, jeweled hilts and of course their guards were heavily armed with weapons less ornamented but more deadly.

As Jaqen's path led him into the Armorers District, the widow was faced with the dilemma of how to appear to _belong_ in an area so few women normally frequented, much less grieving, foreign widows. It would be much harder to blend among those patronizing the smithies. Fortunately, Jaqen and his wooden case disappeared into the first shop on the street, The Meerios Dinast Armory, the preeminent weapons maker in Braavos (and the whole of the Free Cities, Meerios liked to claim. His conceit was excusable as his assertion was valid. The Cat had seen an impressive sampling of weapons and armor flowing from his shop. The cost was great but as the only armorer in Braavos who could claim the skill to work Valyrian steel, it was justified). Jaqen's fortuitous turn spared the widow from having to pretend she was only passing through the Armorers District en route to the Temple of the Moonsingers. She breezed past the main entrance of Meerios' and swiftly eased into the narrow alley separating the armorer's shop from his neighbor's. There was a row of small, high windows imbedded in the alley wall of the shop which let light into the front room where Meerios and his apprentices dealt with customers. They were too high for a widow to reach, even on her toes, so the Cat silently scrambled atop a few discarded crates stacked in the alley and lifted her gauzy veil to peer through the dirty glass.

Jaqen faced away from her so she saw only his back but she could also see a young apprentice wiping his sooty hands against his leather apron as he spoke with her mentor. The young man smiled at Jaqen and nodded, appearing to agree with something Jaqen was saying, then turned and called to the back of the shop. A moment later, Meerios appeared, his dark face a contrast to the snow of his pointed beard. The apprentice spoke to his master and then it seemed that Jaqen was saying something to him which piqued Meerios' interest. The older man's eyes widened and then a delighted smile creased his face. The men continued their exchange as the Cat strained to read the armorer's lips. The glass was obscuring her view enough to make it an almost impossible feat so she swiped at it with her veil in annoyance. Her efforts improved her vision only a little and she stared intently at Meerios' mouth as a cat jumped onto the table where Jaqen had laid his case, momentarily distracting her. She glared at the cat then felt a little light-headed. Realizing she hadn't eaten in nearly a day, she barely had time to wonder if she should have had those figs after all when she suddenly found she could hear the men speaking. She closed her eyes to better concentrate on the words and could clearly visualize the men in her head.

"…and I assure you, the work will be _more_ than satisfactory. It will be _perfection_," Meerios was saying.

"And the colors will not be a problem?" Jaqen clarified.

"Child's play," the master armorer sniffed, almost offended.

"How long?" the Lorathi wanted to know.

"A month. Sooner if you don't object to some traces of the original color being left behind."

"It is not the original color," was all the assassin said, settling the matter.

"Very good. A month then. Meerios Dinast is always pleased to be of service to the Temple of Black and White."

Jaqen nodded and turned to leave when the master armorer stopped him, asking, "Don't you wish to know the price?"

"It is of no consequence," Jaqen returned dismissively, then strode toward the door.

The Cat opened her eyes and tried to shake off the queasy feeling in her stomach, unsure if her lack of food or the confusion she felt at hearing their words was to blame (her confusion was both that she had not completely understood what the exchange was about and also that she should be able to hear them at all from the alley).

"One of the windows near me must have been open a crack," she reasoned as she deftly leapt from her perch to the ground. She ducked behind the crates, giving her master enough time to vacate the area before slipping from the alleyway back onto the cobblestone street.

She decided to travel through the Armorers District after all, following the Long Canal, headed towards the Temple of the Moonsingers. It was the shortest way back to the House of Black and White. All was quiet when she entered the temple so she continued on to her own cell to change from the widow's raiment into her own acolyte's robe. After replacing the dress and veil in the storage room, she headed for the small dining hall for the midday meal, exceptionally hungry—she had missed the previous supper due to an unwillingness to leave the training room and had left before the others broke their fast that morning so that she could prepare to do the Many-Faced god's bidding in the market. The others were already seated when she arrived and she saw that she would be getting those figs after all, in a salad with carrots and greens, alongside roasted pork and some of Umma's crusty bread. She sat down and laid into the food greedily, only noting after the growl in her stomach had been quieted that neither Jaqen nor the Kindly Man were present.

* * *

After sating her hunger, the girl wandered to the main temple area, stopping in a darkened corridor to study the pale statue of the Stranger upon its pedestal in a shadowy alcove. The rendering of this aspect of the seven was eerie, but peculiarly beautiful. The Cat cocked her head as she leaned in closer to the veiled face; so close that she could feel her own warm breath reflected off the cool stone. _Unknown and Unknowable_ a distant memory spoke in her mother's voice, or at least in what she told herself was her mother's voice. She could no longer be sure; it had been too long since she had heard it outside of her own head.

"Your people believe that the Stranger greets them upon their deaths, do they not?" the Kindly Man's voice softly asked.

"I have no people," she replied without turning around. "I am no one."

"You lie," he stated balefully. "And poorly."

She said nothing for a moment, then suddenly turned and told him, "In another life, my people held to the old gods. The North has little use for the Stranger."

He nodded solemnly, and then wondered aloud, "Will it be the Stranger or the old gods who greet a beautiful maid who it is said departed this mortal realm not long ago?"

She turned around as if to consider the question seriously while studying the Stranger but really meant to hide the small smile she felt burgeoning on her lips at the Kindly Man's words—a self-satisfied smile created of pleasure at her own success as well as amusement at the predictable composition of the principal elder's question.

"Neither," she decided, then considered the nature of the god in whose temple they were now standing and added, "Or, both."

"Just so," the kindly man agreed. "Where have you been?"

"The market," the girl answered simply.

"A lie of omission is still a lie," he reminded her.

She turned away from the Stranger once again and looked at the Kindly Man with wide, innocent eyes, sounding sincerely confused when she told him, "I don't know what you mean."

"Another lie, child. You smell of the sea."

She attempted to deflect his accusation by feigning offense.

"I'm _not_ a child!" she insisted.

"Another lie."

They stood staring at each other for an uncomfortable amount of time, and then the Kindly Man asked her to explain how the thing was done. She obliged him, detailing her choice of disguise, her trip to the market, and her interaction with the maid. Rather than offering praise, the Kindly Man simply nodded, then remarked on the ease of the assignment.

"It _was_ easy," she conceded. "Easy enough that any of the less-experienced acolytes might have accomplished this thing."

The question implied hung in the air between them but the Kindly Man did not deign to address it. Instead, he told her that she was expected by the waif who had mentioned something about needing to replenish the temple's supply of Sweetsleep. The Cat left him, bound for the room with workbenches and crucibles and other supplies for creating the toxins sometimes employed by their order to answer the prayers of devotees. As she drifted through the door into the workroom and saw the waif waiting impatiently for her, she wondered if she could create a more potent version of the poison that needed replacement. Her mind instantly became occupied with inventing new and simpler methods of delivery, devices easier to conceal than even a small glass vial. Gloves with tiny bladders in the tips of the fingers, or perhaps a powdered version of the poison that could easily be sprinkled on food amongst the salt with no one the wiser…

"I know that look," the waif told her sourly in Dothraki. "Stop daydreaming and start working. Let's just focus on replacing what you used today and think about your silly inventions later."

* * *

The girl left the waif as soon as the Sweetsleep supply was once again satisfactory and headed for the training room. As usual, she selected a blunted _Bravos_ blade from the racks along the wall and slid into what she had come to consider Syrio's stance. His words played in her mind. _Quiet as a shadow. Calm as still water._ She slashed powerfully at the air in front of her, continuing her mantra. _Quick as a snake. Strong as a bear. _

"Fear cuts deeper than swords," she heard a voice say; a voice that was not Syrio's but might have been for the seamless way it blended with her memories at that moment.

She whirled around as if doing so was her intention all along, blocking a playful cut from Jaqen's broadsword.

"Practice is to improve the skills," he told her, sliding out of the reach of her blade and pointing his own toward the ground in front of him. This was his teaching-stance, so she dropped her sword arm to listen. "A man wonders why a girl would practice so often with the implement she has mastered while ignoring others with which she has merely _adequate_ technique."

"Mastered?" she barked. "You _disarmed_ me not two weeks ago when I was using this blade I've _mastered."_

He ignored her and tossed her a large, blunted sword. She caught it in her left hand and felt the weight of it pulling at her shoulder. Looking at him questioningly, she finally shrugged and moved to replace her slender _Bravos_ blade in its rack.

"A man does not mean for a girl to fight with the larger sword instead of the lighter," he told her, stopping her movement toward to racks.

"Well, what then?" she queried, confused.

"Use them both," he instructed.

"Both?" she laughed, clearly indicating her distaste for the idea. "But, the longsword is so heavy!"

"That is no longsword," he corrected. "That is a bastard sword, lovely girl"

"That's even _heavier,"_ she hissed, knowing it would almost exclusively be a two-handed weapon when wielded by a woman.

"Then get stronger," he commanded without sympathy.

She looked at him, wondering if he had really suddenly decided she should master this sort of dual-handed technique that even the most seasoned of Faceless Men did not typically employ or if this was some sort of punishment for a transgression of which she was not yet aware. Before she had determined the answer, he was relating more instructions which only increased her apprehension.

"A girl will spar with these two swords every day until a man tells her otherwise."

"Jaqen!" she cried in disbelief, thinking he must be japing.

His answer was as swift blow with his broadsword, which she barely blocked by lifting both of her swords and forming a cross, catching his blade between them.

"Good," he grunted, pulling his blade away and spinning to come at her from her left, the side defended by the heavier bastard sword. She lifted it but actually blocked his blow with her _Bravos_ blade, crossing her body with it, bastard sword lifted ineffectually at waist level, pointing straight ahead.

He clucked his tongue at her and swatted at her useless arm, telling her, "A girl makes herself a cripple. You must learn to use what you have. A girl has two arms, two sword-hands, and two blades."

"I'm fast enough to fight _two men_ with just _one_ arm, _one_ sword-hand, and _one_ blade," she retorted, ducking under his forceful cut, dragging the long bastard sword against the stone floor as she did. The sound was awful and it made Jaqen grimace.

"Learn to be fast enough with _two_ blades," he urged, "and conquer a _roomful of men_."

She stood up straight, abandoning her defensive posture, dropping both arms so that the points of her blades rested lightly on the ground. She considered Jaqen's words, piercing his eyes with her own. After a moment, she gave a stiff nod, moved the new blade into her stronger hand while transferring her slender sword into her left, then regained her stance.

"Let's dance," she said, her words both invitation and assent.


	12. Chapter 12

After an hour of her master's specially devised torture, the girl collapsed on the floor of the training room, crying, "No more!" with an exhausted wheeze. Her left arm was remarkably sore, both from the exertion with the heavier training sword as well as Jaqen's relentless and forceful application of the flat of his own blade to it (which she had no doubt was driven by a desire for revenge, at least in part, for her coloring his own arm with a dark bruise during their first duel after his return to Braavos. He might scold her for her preoccupation with vengeance, but here was evidence that he harbored his own deep desire for spiteful retribution).

"A girl should have a hot bath," her mentor suggested casually. "Soreness will not be an excuse when we spar on the morrow. The heat will help… some."

She groaned and rolled over, pushing herself up onto her knees, feeling the tight ache in her biceps, especially her left. She looked at him, a mixture of loathing and respect in her eyes. He smirked at her and offered her his hand. She did not take it, instead placing the flat of her palms against her thighs (also tender, thanks to the incessant crouching and springing and dancing she had to employ in order to stay out of reach of the Lorathi's blade while trying to effectively use the unwieldy bastard sword). She looked at him, wondering if he would tell her what it was she wanted to know. Thoughts of trailing after him to the Armorers District entered her head but she pushed them aside, knowing she could not ask him about that. Not yet. But, perhaps if she got him talking about other things...

He dropped his extended hand to its customary place, thumb hooked into his sword belt, and then pivoted to return his own training sword to its place. When he turned to face her again, his look was expectant. His ability to read her awed her almost as much as it vexed her.

The girl laughed almost imperceptibly and mostly at herself, then said, "You expect me to make some declaration or ask some profound question. Am I so easy to decipher?"

He approached her slowly, eyes on her face, head tilting slightly as he neared her. His reach brought his hand to her chin, lifting it up so that she was gazing into his eyes, and then his rough thumb gently traced her bottom lip before tugging it from between her teeth.

"If a girl does not wish a man to know her thoughts, she must learn to _quit chewing her lip_."

She sighed, annoyed with herself, then this time accepted his offered hand, rising smoothly from the ground, giving no hint of the screaming discomfort in her muscles. As she returned her weapons to their proper racks, she repeated a marching chant in her head: _don't limp, don't limp, don't limp_. The pain was an accusation. Had her swordplay become _complacent_? Though she often exhausted herself with her training, slashing at, dancing around, and sparring with straw dummies, her fellows and imaginary enemies until she nearly dropped with fatigue, she could not recall the last time she had been so _sore. _Yes, a hot bath would definitely be forthcoming, and if the pain got any worse, maybe some Tears of Lys.

She turned from the weapons rack and walked to the low wooden bench in the room, dropping to it and then bending to stretch, reaching her fingers down to curl over her toes and trying to loosen the tight knots in her back and shoulders, nearly crying with the effort. She blew out her breath, long and slow, then, inhaling, sat up straight and faced her master.

"You promised me a tale after you returned and I've not yet heard it."

"Just so," he acknowledged. "A man has duties, as does a lovely girl. This tale takes time for the telling."

"I've got time now."

He raised his eyebrows, giving her a meaningful look as he said, "Unless a girl wishes to be bedridden tomorrow, she should get to her bath."

She scowled at his deferral even as he laughed at her impatience.

"Do not worry, impetuous child, you will have your tale. A man is thinking only of a girl's comfort. Gratitude would be a more befitting sentiment than exasperation, do you not agree?"

Her expression did not change and she silently stalked off, muttering, "The Others take the stupid bath!"

Jaqen's unrestrained laughter echoed down the long passageway after her.

* * *

The bath water was scalding hot when it was first poured but had now cooled to a comfortably warm degree as the Cat reclined in the soaking tub, under clouds of suds that had formed as she used the soap the waif had created to clean those who bathed here without leaving a scent on their skin. A light perfume could be enough to betray an assassin's hidden position if a sensitive enough nose were to take notice of it. The Cat wasn't sure what the correlation between "unscented" and "frothy" was but figured there must be one based solely on the amount of bubbles produced from routine washing during her baths.

The Cat's soaked, tangled mane, now clean, slapped wetly over the back of the large copper tub as she leaned back into the water, dripping enough to create a sizable puddle on the stone floor. She closed her eyes, neck-deep in the water and suds, and moaned as her deep aches diminished but not enough to stop calling them aches. She turned her face to the side, toward the roaring fire in the large hearth meant to keep the room from becoming uncomfortably cold as well as warm large kettles of water to replenish the bath as needed. Her cheek rested on the edge of the tub and she drifted off to sleep.

The daylight was waning as the riders approached the Inn. They must have been deemed friendly because the children swarmed the porch at the sound of hooves and danced excitedly as the men leapt from their mounts and approached them. Gendry appeared in the doorway and the children swept aside to allow him passage down the steps into the yard where a new arrival with long, dark hair and beard greeted him. She could only partially see the new arrival's profile, but her keen eyes told her he was of the North. The Northman and Gendry embraced, pounding each other on the back with a sort of sincere and excited relief. The younger man then turned to greet the rest of the riders, voices murmuring, but words unintelligible no matter how much she pricked her ears.

Cautiously, she crept from the wood's edge toward the Inn, sniffing at the air, trying to detect anything that would justify an attack. She found nothing. A handful of her cousins whined and slunk but followed her at a little distance while the rest of the pack rested safely in the woods, the nocturnal creatures not yet awake. She had covered half the distance between the tree line and the structure when she heard a large man in a tattered yellow cape shout in alarm.

"By the Seven! What in the bloody hells!"

The horses were disquieted, and then they were wild, leaving the riders to pull and jerk on their reins to prevent the distressed creatures from bolting. Her cousins growled, slaver running from their mouths, but they made no move towards the horses or the men. Gendry snapped his head up and looked toward her. His face showed surprise but not alarm. When two archers snapped up their weapons and aimed them at her, the large man stayed them with his words.

"No! Brothers, please! She'll not harm us!"

The Northman turned to fully face her and his expression of curiosity became one of confusion, then disbelief, then understanding. A name echoed in her head at his look; a name and a voice, so familiar; words, half-remembered, from another lifetime. _You ride like a northman, milady. Your aunt was the same, Lady Lyanna. But my father was master of horse, remember. _

"Harwin," the girl in her thought. The wolf in her approached him slowly, snout down, sniffing. The scent was familiar but old, the memory fleeting. The scent belonged to a man who had been nearby when she and her sister and brothers were plucked from their mother's cooling carcass, rescued from the snow; a man who had lived within the same high, stone walls around which she and littermates had roamed so long ago; a man who had been among the large pack of men snaking their way south, away from the snows and weirwood of her home, when she had tasted lion's blood and lost her sister and her mistress all at once. She gave a little whine then pressed her wet snout into the Northman's calloused palm.

A collective breath was released by all those present, bows lowered (though not dropped), and the yellow-caped man's hoarse voice declared, "She's _monstrous!_"

"Aye," Harwin agreed as the wolf pulled her snout from his hand and sat on her haunches, facing the crowd of men, nearly of a height with them in her seated position. _Calm as still water._ "She's a direwolf."

"What in Seven Hells is a _direwolf _doing this far south?" one of the archers demanded.

Harwin studied the wolf and without taking his eyes off her, said, "A highborn lady once left her wolf pup behind along the Trident when I travelled south with Lord Eddard and King Robert. It seems the pup has grown up."

"Arya," Gendry whispered, so faintly that only Harwin and the wolf's sharp ears could hear. Harwin nodded in confirmation and Gendry added more loudly, "This _monster_ saved us when the outlaws raided here. None of the orphans were seriously harmed thanks to her and her pack."

"But… _How_?" the yellow-cloaked man rasped.

Harwin looked at Gendry and shrugged, addressing the riders.

"I hardly think we can afford to question any help that comes to us, no matter the form. We've all certainly seen things that defy explanation since joining the Brotherhood," he said, looking meaningfully at each of them, then added, "I think we should reward her with a nice juicy lamb."

Several of the men looked uncomfortable. She could smell their fear but still sensed no threat. Gendry broke the tension by joking that if anyone actually _had_ a nice, juicy lamb, he'd be willing to fight the direwolf for it. The men laughed and the wolf gave a small, barking yelp that indicated she would accept such a challenge before standing and turning tail. She trotted back to the wood, her cousins following her unquestionable lead. As she passed the tree line, a sudden splashing caused her to jerk her head up from the edge of the tub, gasping in terrified surprise.

Heart pounding, the Cat saw Jaqen pouring a kettle full of near-boiling water into her tub, warming the bath that had become completely cool. Her eyes searched in confusion for the trees around her but found only stone walls, flickering torches, and a crackling fire burning low in the hearth. She was in the House of Black and White, and had been; not in the wood near the Inn at the Crossroads, no matter how much it felt as if she was. _These blasted wolf dreams!_

"What are you _doing_ here?" she demanded in an almost panting voice as her panic and confusion subsided, leaving her with a weak feeling in her limbs and a knot in her belly.

"Foolish girl, the question is what are _you_ doing here?"

What _was_ she doing? The truth was, she had no idea.

* * *

The Cat was relieved to see that the suds were still mounded on top of her bath despite the obvious passage of time since she had fallen asleep and dreamed of Nymeria and the Brotherhood, but still she felt uncomfortable with Jaqen's presence. She told herself not to be such a _child_, that her master had no interest in her nakedness and that even if he had, she could not allow herself to be undone by an emotion as ridiculous as _embarrassment._ Emotions were weakness, except for rage (rage, when properly managed, was power, no matter what the Kindly Man said). She struggled to shake off her discomfort and find out if the Lorathi was after more than just the merriment he derived from catching her off her guard. Before she could ask him again why he was there, he spoke.

"A man wonders if a girl realizes that she _talks_ when she sleeps."

This was interesting. She had not realized this—no one had ever told her before. Sansa had often accused her of snoring while she slept, but never of talking. When she saw the look he was giving her, she determined that Jaqen didn't find her predilection for jabbering while she dreamed _interesting_. He seemed to find it _concerning_.

"Why are you looking at me like that? I'm sure I'm not the only person in the Free Cities who ever talked in her sleep."

"It is not what a girl _does_ that disturbs a man," he told her quietly. "It is what she _says_."

She pondered that for a moment but wasn't sure how she should respond. She knew what it was that she _dreamed_ and in truth, recalling her dreams was no different than recalling her memories of things she had actually done. The dreams, as ever, remained _so very realistic_. But she had no idea what she might be _saying_ while she was dreaming. He mentor did not seem inclined to tell her.

"What should I do?" she asked him. "I can't help that I dream and I can't help _what_ I dream."

He stiffly nodded, acknowledging the truth in her words, but they brought him no comfort. He then dropped to his knees next to her bath, his arm resting along the side of the copper tub as his fingers gripped the edge tightly. He leaned his face close to hers, his breath warm near her ear, all spice and lemon, as the timbre of his voice became low and urgent.

"A girl must speak of these dreams to no one," he nearly whispered, his words both a warning and a command. "Heed this advice and _follow it precisely_."

"Alright," she said without hesitation. His concern discomfited her and she couldn't quite puzzle out its cause. She resolved to unravel the mystery later, but now, wanted to leave it behind for a time and distract them from the serious atmosphere that had settled in the room. Looking up at his troubled face, she spoke in a lighthearted voice, reminding him, "You promised to tell me of your travels. I want to know where you were for a year and a half."

He continued looking at her with his brow creased, not fooled by her ploy, but after a moment, he pushed up to his feet. Stepping back, he casually knocked her piled clothes from the one chair in the room onto the damp floor and sat down to face her. Seeing her clothes soaking up some of the spilled bath water, she glared at him but said nothing. He gave her a mischievous smile and she rolled her eyes, groaning her aggravation.

"This tale takes time to tell, and a girl should be working on her skills, not wasting time with children's stories," he remarked with mock petulance, leaning over the pick up a dagger that sat atop her now-wet clothes. He twirled the knife, studying its plain hilt, testing the sharpness of the point of the blade against his fingertip.

She accepted his challenge, suggesting he tell her the tale in High Valyrian, making it a language lesson.

"No," he said, waving dismissively. "A girl's High Valyrian is too good. Do not waste a man's time."

She thought for a moment, then her eyes crinkled and her mouth curved slightly into a saucy smile as she baited him with her next suggestion.

"You could tell me in _Lorathi_."

She knew she had him then. Lorath, such a small place with a limited history of involvement with their order… Who concentrates on perfecting their Lorathi, aside from the Lorathi themselves? Hers was weak, or it had been when Jaqen left Braavos over eighteen moons ago. She had meant to amaze him with her improvement upon his return. There was no better time than right now, she realized.

He studied her intensely for a moment, trying to guess at her game. She stared right back at him, face confident, expression triumphant, all while thinking, "_Don't bite your lip. Don't bite your lip_." He breathed noisily, almost as if he were dramatically signaling his resignation, and then spoke.

"Fine. A man will tell his tale in Lorathi," he agreed, then paused before adding, "and a girl will tell a man which parts are lies."

_Gods_, but he was irritating! A lesson in Lorathi _and_ this lying game? All while in a tepid bath, naked as her name day, with only some frothy bubbles and the warm air of the room between them? But now _he_ had _her._

"I think you have an unfair advantage in this game," she pouted. "I'm in the blasted _bath_."

"Silly girl, a man can only see your head and neck. You can see a man's whole body. Of course, only seeing your bottom lip has proven to be enough in the past," he teased.

"Alright," she grudgingly accepted his terms. "But first, I have to know one thing. I've been wondering about it ever since you arrived back at the temple. Why a feast upon your return? I've seen brothers return dozens of times from missions, some gone even longer than you were, without so much as smile passing the Kindly Man's face. What was so different about _this_ mission?"

His eyes fairly twinkled as delight lit up his face at her question. He stopped playing with her dagger, clasping it to the arm of the chair with his hand as he pushed forward in his seat. He closed the gap between them to nearly nothing and examined her face for a few seconds before he spoke. She gave an involuntary gasp as he answered her.

"Dragons, lovely girl," he purred.


	13. Chapter 13

Dragons!" she repeated, her voice excited.

Of course, there had been rumors for years; enough that it was generally accepted that there were indeed dragons and that they were the special pets of the _last_ dragon, Daenerys Targaryen (well, she was the last of the dragons if you didn't believe the tale of the infant son of Rhaegar surviving the sacking of King's Landing. An Aegon of some derivation was supposedly encamped in Dorne, plotting the overthrow of the Lion-in-Stag's-clothing currently sitting atop that ghastly iron monstrosity in the Red Keep, but whether this Aegon was _the _Aegon was as yet undetermined).

What the exiled princess planned to _do_ with her fire-breathing creatures depended on who you asked. Some traders said she was burning her way through the slave cities (again), punishing those who had perverted her noble intention of freeing the slaves to create new bases of power for themselves by exploiting the weak (again). Others claimed she was sitting atop a great pyramid in Mereen, getting fat and old while surrounded by great piles of gold she demanded of her conquered subjects as tribute, lest she roast them alive with her beasts. Still others insisted her army was marching to the coast so that they might board ships to Westeros whilst their _khaleesi_ rode high above them on the back of one of her deadly children.

The idea of riding a dragon thrilled the girl and she found herself wishing she might trade places with the silver queen, if only for a day.

"Wait, do you mean _dragon_ dragons or Targaryens?"

"Both."

"Have we begun the lying game? Am I supposed to guess if you're telling the truth now?"

He quirked up the corner of his mouth and half-laughed, "A man does not know. Are you?"

She studied his expression, played back his words and tone in his head, then said, "'Dragons' is a true answer, because we hadn't started playing yet. And you told the truth when you answered that both types of dragons are part of the tale, but when you first said 'dragons' you meant _actual_ dragons."

"Good," he praised, then in his native tongue, said to her, "Now, tell this to a man again in Lorathi."

She gave a small growl but then did as she was bid. She was rewarded with a smile slowly creeping across Jaqen's face while his eyes widened in surprise and pleasure.

"A girl's Lorathi has improved," he remarked in the lilting, melodic tongue of his homeland.

It was her turn to smile. Every now and again, even an independent Cat appreciated being stroked.

The game continued in this way, Jaqen telling her about the journey across the Narrow Sea to Westeros, travelling first to King's Landing where he was sent to retrieve a certain artifact. She guessed his assertion was a lie.

"Is it?" he responded, giving no hint at the veracity of his statement, then continued his tale of his ride to Old Town, where he found evidence of dragons nearby.

"Nearby?" she questioned, trying to discern if this fantastic bit of the story contained any truth. The logical part of her mind told her that it wasn't possible. There had been no word of dragons landing in Westeros. Surely something would have drifted across the Narrow Sea and to her ears by now. She spent enough time around Ragman's Harbor that she felt certain she would have picked up some word of this from the western sailors that poured in and out of Braavos. They liked to talk, especially in the taverns, and it was often their words that the Cat dutifully repeated to the Kindly Man when called upon to report the three new things she learned during her outings. None of these loquacious seafarers had ever mentioned anything about dragons in Westeros, though.

She leaned her head and shoulders over the side of the tub nearest her mentor, resting her forearms along its edge, one atop the other. Pinching her face into a look of intense concentration, she stared into Jaqen's bronze eyes, studied the set of his mouth, then gasped and pulled slightly back as she realized he was telling the truth. A small shiver went through her. _Dragons. In Westeros!_

Her master said nothing, but rose from his seat and approached the low fire. Using the thick leather gloves set on the mantle, he picked up the last of the kettles of hot water and poured it into her bath, the level rising almost to the top now. The new warmth crept from her toes up to her legs and she sighed with contentment. She pulled back from the edge of the tub and leaned once again into her reclined position, water sloshing over the edge, chasing Jaqen's heels as he settled back into his chair. She held up her fingers in the firelight and regarded their pruned surfaces, then turned to look at him.

"How did you know they were nearby?"

His fingers formed a pyramid pressed against his lips, elbows resting on his thighs as he leaned towards her, considering his next words. Sliding his fingertips from his lips to the underside of his chin, he spoke, answering her question and continuing his tale.

"There is a candle in Old Town," he began.

"A _candle_," she interrupted, a hint of disbelief in her voice. "In _Old Town_."

"Just so. A dragonglass candle."

"A _dragonglass candle,_" she repeated, the pitch of her voice climbing, clearly conveying her doubt about the importance of this claim.

"A girl may guess that a man is lying or telling the truth but if she insists on merely repeating a man's tale word for word in that grating tone of voice, perhaps it is not a lesson in languages and lies she needs, but a lesson in manners."

"Sorry," she mumbled.

He looked at her before dropping his hands to his knees and pushing back in his seat so that he was comfortably reclining, and then crossed his leg so that one heel came to rest upon the other knee. She nearly vibrated with her impatience but stifled both the desire to yell at him to get on with it and the desire to bite her lip.

"This dragonglass candle is an ancient artifact and came to the Citadel from Valyria before the Doom."

"Well, _obviously_ before the Doom," she muttered in the Common Tongue, flicking a cloud of foam from under her chin with her thumb and forefinger.

He flashed her a warning look, and she groused inwardly that the only time he wasn't hard to read was when he was angry with her. She made her expression appropriately obsequious and cast her eyes down toward the waning bubbles slowly undulating atop the barely warm water.

Satisfied with her gesture, her mentor continued, giving her a short history of obsidian candles. As she listened, it dawned on her that what he was telling her might not be important to the tale but was instead a sort of punishment for her characteristic display of impertinence. If he intended to chasten her and improve her attitude, she wished he would do it with a blade or even a well-placed slap. Anything was preferable to his attempt to _bore_ her to death. What she learned was not useful to determining how he knew that dragons were _nearby_. All he had said of interest was that the dragonglass candles only burned when dragons were in the world. _Anywhere_ in the world. How could he have used this wondrous device smuggled all the way from Valyria (_before_ the Doom) to determine proximity?

She closed her eyes and focused her concentration on his words and the tone in which he delivered them. She recalled his eyes, the way he narrowed them slightly before speaking, then opened them wide as the words left his lips. Guileless. He was telling the truth. She opened her eyes, leaving them focused on the ceiling, and told him so.

"Yes, lovely girl. This is the truth."

"But I still don't understand…" she started in her native tongue, then corrected herself and repeated in Lorathi, "I still don't understand how you were able to tell that the dragons were _nearby_ simply because a candle was burning which tells you that dragons _exist_."

"A man has seen this candle before," he replied, not expanding on the _when_ or the _how _of that. "Before, when the dragons were new to the world and far from Westeros. Then, this candle burned low but bright. This last time, the candle flame was high; so high it nearly scorched the ceiling of the chamber in which it sat, and was so bright that it was hard for a man to look upon."

"That's the truth," she determined and he acknowledged her correctness with a slight nod. "But there's more."

"Very good," he complimented. "A girl is more and more perceptive. There _is_ more."

She awaited his revelation, trying not to give him the satisfaction of displaying her impatience overtly. She arranged her face in what she hoped was a slightly expectant yet only mildly interested look, but worried he could see the visible pounding of her heart against her breast. _Dragons in Westeros, evidenced by the behavioral changes of a magical Valyrian candle, and there was _more_._ Her mind fairly screamed at him; _tell me, tell me, TELL ME_!

"A man has seen."

His words stirred in her head as she tried to comprehend his meaning. At first, she thought he had not yet completed his thought; that he was merely pausing for effect. She looked at him and could tell then that his sentence was finished. His face was a flat, calm mask, revealing nothing. Has seen _what?_ He had seen the candle. Twice, apparently. _A man has seen. _He had seen…

"Jaqen, you saw them? You saw the dragons? Are you saying that you _saw_ the _dragons_ in _Westeros?_"

"A man has said. Is this the truth?"

"Seven hells, Jaqen! You've been back two weeks…"

"Nearly," he corrected.

"You've been back _nearly_ two weeks and there are bloody _dragons_ in Westeros and _this _is the first time you think to tell me?"

She was beside herself, trembling in rage, in disbelief, in terror. She was Arya, worried Sansa might roast alive if she wasn't dead already; she was the wolf, worried that she could not protect the innocent and her cousins from such monsters; she was the Cat, worried her skills would never be put to the use she longed for if her enemies were turned to ash before she could reach them; she was… she was…

She was _no one._

All at once, her rage left her and the cooling water prickled her skin. She was _no one_, and _no one_ was not concerned with what happened in Westeros. _No one_ cared only to do the bidding of the Many-Faced god. _No one_ practiced reading faces and voices and understanding the truth and the lies in men's words. _No one_ could slaughter and kill and bathe in the blood as easily as a maid giggled when a handsome knight smiled at her. No one turned to her master and bade him continue.

He examined her carefully, not speaking despite her urging him to finish his recounting of his travels. She seemed, for once, truly… _faceless_. He felt something akin to pride at seeing this transformation. She had, at least in this moment, somehow achieved what over four years of training had been building toward. And yet... he was surprised to discover that he was not glad. He wasn't sure if his strange response was because he was more attached than he would like to admit to the chaotic hybrid she had been all this time, part Faceless Man, part tempest wrapped in wolf skin, or if it was that he suspected her newly achieved state could not last through the end of his tale. His face was sad, but only for a tiny moment, then he told her of his journey to Dorne to see the dragons.

Jaqen had borrowed the face of a Dornish novice who had crossed his path in Old Town (the girl did not question him on the particulars of that deed) and procured a fast horse, riding hard for Sunspear, both horse and rider nearly keeling over with exhaustion by the time they arrived. The city was abuzz with talk of dragons, a sort of frightened excitement at being so near such creatures. Still, talk was talk and he needed more proof than gossip in the streets. After a day's rest and hearing several accounts of the dragons being kept around the abandoned ruins of the Tower of Joy, he backtracked and picked his way through the mountains, intent on seeing them with his own eyes.

On the third day, as he approached Yronwood, his eye was drawn to the sky where three strange birds danced together. It was only after a few moments of observation that he determined they were not birds but were indeed the great dragons, so high in the sky and far away as to be barely visible. He continued on across the Red Mountains for another day and spotted them several more times, looming larger as his approach drew him closer to their temporary nest. The landscape en route to the Prince's Pass increasingly showed signs of the new occupation: burnt stands of trees, carcasses comprised of little but charred bone and scraps of blackened fur, and a few smoldering peasant shacks abandoned along the route. It was enough to convince him of what the candle had indicated.

"A man had the proof his own eyes provided, and so veered away from his course and headed northward toward the Reach."

She didn't even look at him before she said, "You lie."

"What lie does a man tell?" his amused voice inquired.

"You did _not_ leave after seeing some burnt patches of ground and some dragon-shaped forms in the distance. You continued on your path. You went to the Tower of Joy."

"Why does a girl believe these things?" he asked noncommittally.

"Because I know you," was her only answer.

He smiled once more at her but she did not turn to see it. Her white shoulders peeked out from beneath the high water and nearly exhausted soapy froth. He noted a small scar, old and well-healed but still visible, on the snowy flesh where her right shoulder became her arm. Gingerly, he dropped again to his knees near her side and reached out to trace the scar's path.

"How did a girl come by this?" he asked her softly, wondering if he was imagining the slight trembling he felt as his fingers brushed her flesh. He lifted his eyes from his own fingers caressing the old wound to her face and watched as her lips parted slightly and she drew in a light, shallow breath before replying to his question in a near whisper.

"I got it in a fight with a man I had to kill because he wouldn't _finish his thrice-damned story."_

He snorted, telling her that she was a terrible liar and then acknowledged that he had indeed continued on to the ruins of the fabled tower as she had guessed.

"I didn't guess," she told him. "I _knew_."

He bowed his head in deference to her powers of appraisal then told her that in the Prince's Pass, he had seen _two_ dragons.

"But in the sky, you saw three. Is one of these accounts a lie?"

"No, lovely girl. The dragons a man saw at the tower had silver hair and amethyst eyes."

She thought about that for a moment before inferring, "Daenerys _and_ Aegon?"

"Just so."

She considered the information he had revealed to her. There were two Targaryens and three dragons in Dorne. The intelligence was important enough to the order that a feast was thrown for Jaqen simply for bearing it home. What did it mean? Her head was swimming and she bowed it under the weight of all the questions she had to ponder and answers she needed to find to satisfy her curiosity. It was the only way to put to rest her churning thoughts. Her mental list ticked off in her mind's eye involuntarily. _Why were the wolf dreams suddenly so frequent? What was Jaqen so anxious about all the time? Why did the rat-faced boy hate her? Why did Umma think that sparring with Jaqen was the equivalent of going all swoony and weak-kneed around him? What had Jaqen brought back from his trip to Westeros and why had he delivered it to Meerios? Why did the order care about dragons in Westeros? And why in the Seven Hells did she suddenly struggle to quit chewing her lip so much?_

Jaqen interrupted her internal monologue, his face moving closer to hers, dipping his fingers lazily into her bath water, testing the temperature as he murmured, "A man has said this tale takes time for the telling. A girl will soon be too chilled to listen if he continues."

"I'm not bothered by the cold," she told him defensively. "You forget, I was born in Winterfell."

"A girl may be immune to cold, but how does she feel about the desertion of all that protects her modesty?"

She looked down at her bath and saw that it was true. The frothy mounds of soap bubbles had been reduced to a thin, patchy layer of foam, floating across the surface of the cool water in a perilously haphazard pattern. She cursed the blush she felt creeping up her neck to her cheeks and tried unsuccessfully to call up a bravado she did not feel.

"What? Do I embarrass you, Jaqen?" she spoke in a tone that tried to be teasing but fell somewhere closer to mortified.

"A man does not embarrass so easily but he fears if a girl turns any pinker, she will be mistaken for a suckling pig by the house's cook. A man does not often experience sadness but he would be most grieved to find his favorite little Cat served up for supper with a plum in her mouth."

His provocation produced in her a combination of extreme aggravation and horror as she gave him a growling yelp, punctuated by a small wave of water splashing over the side of the tub, aimed at his chest. He tossed his head back and guffawed unrepentantly as he leapt to his feet to avoid her further soaking his clothes. She was irritated to see that most of the water with which she had just tried to douse him ended up streaking its way through the grout canals between the stones of the floor and had settled against her already damp clothes, slowly seeping further into the pile.

Her expression was icy as she raised her accusing glare from the sopping clothes to his smiling face. Laughing, he raised his eyebrows, inviting her comment.

"You… are… _insufferable!_" she spat. "You're… you're just like a… like a giant _child!_"

His laughter settled into a satisfied smirk as his eyes trailed down the length of her bath. His thumbs hooked into his sword belt and as his eyes traced back up toward her face, he countered, "It may be that a man is like an insufferable child…"

She followed the path his eyes had taken with her own, realizing with growing dismay that the last of her bubbles had fizzed away and all that lay between his stupid bronze eyes and her stupid bare skin was the stupid cold water in which she lay, stretched out and shivering. Instinctively, her arms crossed over her chest, pressing her breasts tightly, forming a sort of décolletage of wet, bruised limbs as she glared murderously at him, flushing bright red to the roots of her hair.

"...but a girl has definitely become a woman grown," he finished.


	14. Chapter 14

Jaqen had left her in the bath, freezing and fuming, his luxuriant and deep laugh causing her to bristle as if she were wearing Nymeria's skin. She bellowed after him not to think that this was finished; that she fully expected to get the rest of the story, and soon. That annoying chortle echoed down the hall as he left to do whatever it is that exasperating masters do after they've thoroughly humiliated their apprentices. She resolved that she would hear the rest of this story when she was _clothed_ and if he thought she would play another lying game with him in exchange for information, then he was sorely mistaken. He _owed_ her.

She stood, dripping and shivering, cascades of water plunging down her body and into the frigid tub. She stepped carefully onto the slick stones and grabbed the soft linen cloth she would use to dry herself, slinking to a spot in front of the dying fire. She stepped as close to the inner hearth as she could without burning herself, trying to warm up as she rubbed the droplets from her goose pimpled flesh. Once dry, she began to feel the heat from the embers inching up her legs and wrapped herself in the damp linen cloth, walking around the copper tub to retrieve her clothes. They were beyond help. She had to wring out the excess water that was soaking them, the cold water dripping into the tub as she twisted the garments over and over. She tossed them into a dry corner of the room and sat in the chair where Jaqen had been only minutes before, using her fingers to comb out the tangles in her dark hair. She could still detect his faint scent lingering in the air, all rosemary and lemons and cloves.

Sighing in resignation, she wrapped the linen more securely around her form, picked up her wet robe, small-clothes, and dagger and then used all of her cat-like prowess to creep to her cell undetected so as not to expose her barely clad body to a host of brothers' eyes. Once there, she hung her clothes around her small room to dry, then found her sleeping shift and exchanged it for the damp linen wrap. Groaning, she collapsed onto the bed, eyelids already heavy, too weary and sore to even contemplate supper. She closed her eyes as she drew her soft woolen blanket over her, clutching it under her chin, and thought of all she had seen and heard that day. She fell asleep wondering what it was that Jaqen had been carrying in his wooden case but it was dragons that dominated her dreams.

Upon awakening the next morning, she was certain she was dying. She was confused as to why she nearly collapsed in agony when she pushed up from her bed to attempt to sit and then the memory of sparring with Jaqen came back. _Seven Hells!_ If this was the pain _with_ a long soak, she couldn't fathom what it would have been like without it!

Gingerly, she used her right arm to push up, guarding the tender left arm and relying on her abdominal muscles to help pull her into a seated position. Sucking in a deep breath, she stood up and cried out then stifled the sound, biting back her whimpers and cursing her own weakness. She was unable to comfortably lift her arms high enough to braid her hair again so she left it loose. It fell around her shoulders and down her back in the wild, dark waves that were a consequence of sleeping with it wet and unbound. She took rather longer than she should have to get dressed and then forced herself to stretch as much as she could tolerate, hoping to loosen up and become… _functional._ After all, Jaqen had made it clear that she would be sparring with that bloody bastard sword again today and in her current state, she was like to be too slow to do much more than take a beating.

Carefully, the girl made her way to the small dining hall to break her fast. She found she was rather hungry, probably due to a combination of all the exercise the day before and missing her supper once again. When she arrived in the chamber, several of her brothers were there already, filling their plates with an assortment of Umma's breakfast offerings. There was an egg pie with chopped sardines, toasted bread with honey, stuffed grape leaves, and cider. The Cat couldn't have cared less if there was raw goat innards and spoiled mare's milk, she dove into the food with gusto. The smell was divine. The taste was even better, for the few bites she chewed slowly enough to taste. She noted with glee that her jaw muscles weren't the least bit sore.

"You're moving awfully slow this morning, Cat," Loric observed, reaching across her for another piece of bread. "Are you unwell?"

Loric was a young Myrish boy, nice enough but new to the order. He still liked to talk. A lot.

"Just sore from training, Loric," the Cat replied, leaning back in her chair and enjoying the feeling of a full belly.

"What? How could _you_ get sore? All you ever _do_ is train!" the boy declared.

"Let that be a lesson to you, boy," came Jaqen's voice from behind them, startling her. The Cat didn't need to turn to look at him in order to know he was wearing a cocky smirk. Besides, it hurt too much to turn around. "There is always something for the improving."

He rounded the table and dropped easily into the chair opposite the Cat. She looked across the table at him, embarrassment and vexation warring on her face. She pushed her head against the high back of her chair and sighed deeply, waiting for his inevitable jape. At least she wouldn't have to tolerate it on an empty stomach.

"A girl is wearing her hair differently today," the Lorathi remarked innocently. "A man is not acquainted with the intricacies of fashion. Is this the new style among the young ladies?"

She pursed her lips and said nothing, trying to maintain her dignity. Loric was not helping the matter with his enthusiastic commentary.

"I noticed that too, Cat! It looks very nice, but it doesn't seem practical. Can you fight like that?"

She doubted if she could fight at all, and not because of her hair, but mustered as much composure as she could and told the boy, "You must be ready to fight in any condition. Your enemy will not wait for you to dress your hair before attacking."

She thought the answer very appropriate and congratulated herself on her poise as well as her relevant and useful impromptu advice. Loric seemed to agree as his wide eyes shone upon her with a respect that bordered on adoration. He was probably the only one of her brothers who didn't fear her-he wanted to _be_ her. She felt fairly self-satisfied until her master's voice sounded over her internal applause.

"Well met. A girl has the right of it. You must be ready at _any_ time," he agreed, his eyes crinkling at their corners as they met hers. "Meet me in the training room in one half hour."

She suppressed an overwhelming urge to groan as Jaqen picked up a piece of warm bread, poured a few drops on honey on it, then popped it in his mouth as he rose from the table to leave. When he passed behind her seat, he bent to whisper in her ear.

"A girl will have to disarm a man if she wishes to hear the rest of his tale today."

Her mouth drew into a tight line and she squeezed her eyes shut, trying to battle the frustration welling up within her.

"What did he say?" Loric whispered to her after Jaqen exited the room.

"He said I'm never going to hear the end of his story," she sighed.

* * *

The Cat left the small dining hall shortly after her master did, bound for the temple courtyard, hoping that stretching in the warm sun would restore enough flexibility to her sore muscles that she might not shame herself in the training room. Standing by the fountain, she slowly bent forward, grasping her ankles and feeling the ache wash over her. Still, the sun warmed her through her jerkin and presently, she felt a little better. She stood back up and began moving her arms in slow circles, gritting her teeth at the stabbing and pulling she felt in her sword arm. Well, her _left_ sword arm. As her master had pointed out, _a girl has two sword arms._

Voices echoing in the distance pulled her away from her thoughts. She had believed she would be alone in the courtyard but apparently, others wished to enjoy the morning outdoors as well. She did not relish the idea of being questioned about why she was stretching in the sun (as it was not part of her usual morning routine), so she slipped quietly beyond the fountain, into the shady stand of fruit trees and tall, ornamental grasses on the far end of the yard. After a short time, the Kindly Man came into view, walking with Jaqen. As they approached, she could clearly hear their conversation.

"With all due respect, a man does not believe she is ready. You said as much yourself not two weeks ago," Jaqen was saying, his expression tense.

"Indeed," the Kindly Man remarked. "Nevertheless, the time is fast approaching when something must be done."

"A man begs more time."

"Brother, there are things you do not yet understand."

Jaqen turned to give the Kindly Man a curious look, his question unspoken but plain nonetheless. The Kindly Man regarded his brother with fondness and rested his hand upon the Lorathi's shoulder as they came to a halt in their walk, between the fountain and the Cat's hidden location.

"We are all but servants of the Many-Faced god," the Kindly Man began. "We have our roles and we must play them. He does not bend to our whims but _we_ to _his_. We must be ready when he calls us."

The apprehension on her mentor's face was plain. She could see it from her hiding place where she stood _quiet as a shadow, _afraid to breathe lest she be detected, mind a-whirl. The Kindly Man's words echoed in her thoughts. _There are things you do not yet understand._ What things? She engaged in the useless exercise of trying to read the Kindly Man's face-that-was-not-his-face.

The Kindly Man could see her master's concern as well and attempted to assuage it.

"Worry is not for us, Brother," he told Jaqen softly. "This distress does not become you. If it would ease your burden, there is an assignment in Pentos. A certain wealthy merchant… I had intended to send one of your brothers since you had only just returned, but if you like…"

"No," Jaqen interrupted immediately. "A man would stay in Braavos, and do what he can. Has the time been determined?"

"Oh, I would say not more than a month," the Kindly man remarked mildly as they began to walk back toward the temple. "Yes, I think a month will be long enough."

"The other Westerosi has been training twice as long," Jaqen pointed out.

"Yes, that's true," the principal elder agreed. "I think perhaps his time has come as well."

The men faded from the girl's view and soon she could detect no voices. She waited for several minutes before slowly emerging from her concealed spot, all soreness forgotten. Her heart was pounding. She was certain that they were speaking of her. Her _and_ the rat-faced boy. The Cat's first inclination was to think that they were arguing, in their way, about her suitability for the final trial and taking her vows. Part of her wanted to be angry with Jaqen for questioning her readiness, yet there was definitely something _more._ That something more disturbed her, even though she did not understand it. Her master seemed as if he was... trying to protect her? His worry was becoming _her_ worry, even though she did not comprehend the source of it. She was left with a sense of cold dread in her gut.

* * *

She arrived in the training room at the appointed time and found her master there, pulling swords from the racks. He tossed her the bastard blade and her preferred _Bravos_ blade without a word. She caught them and watched as he pulled a sword for himself from the rack and tested its weight.

"Do you need padding?" he asked without a trace of derision. His expression seemed serious. He was being... strange.

"No," she told him. "I prefer to fight without it."

He nodded, then without further delay, began his attack.

He seemed to be everywhere all at once and she found herself moving more than she would have liked to avoid his blows, but was pleased to see that she _could_ avoid them for the most part. Her muscles ached fiercely but the peculiar encounter she had witnessed in the courtyard coupled with her master's out of character behavior seemed to be filling her with tingling adrenaline and this enabled her to perform better than she had expected to. The bastard sword remained ungodly heavy in her hand but she managed to use it more frequently and more effectively than she had just the day prior.

Jaqen had no japes for her, no baiting, no gentle teasing. His voice was devoid of laughter and no smile creased his face. He offered only the occasional piece of grunted advice. _Keep your sword up. Watch your stance. Straighten your wrist. Pull your elbow in. Bend, don't squat, you'll recover quicker._ She had never seen him so intense or humorless in all their many years together. She had never seen him go so long without referring to her as _a girl._ This only served to increase that dread she had carried into the room with her. It left her limbs feeling numb and shaky but she found that _numb_ wasn't as bad as the excruciating pain she had experienced upon awakening earlier in the morning. Still, he managed to disarm her twice in a short span of time, both times knocking the weighty bastard sword out of her left hand. In each instance, he simply stopped and waited while she retrieved it, then began his assault once she had regained her stance. On and on this went, the girl dancing just beyond the point of her master's sword, or blocking it with a groan as the singing steel vibrated up her arm and through her abused muscles, or scrabbling to retrieve one blade or the other (and once, both) from the cold stones of the floor. Her loose hair flew and floated, here sticking to the sweat on her brow, there covering her eyes, blinding her for a second and allowing her master to get in a solid thrust, poking her ribs.

As they danced around the room, her muscles seemed to loosen up and after a time, she had an uncontrollable urge to vent the pent-up anxiety born of the avalanche of unanswered questions and mysteries and intrigues that suddenly seemed to be crushing her. She was taken by a sudden burst of energy and as Jaqen delivered one of his powerful cuts, she slid on her knees under his arm, avoiding his blow with a move she had learned by watching the rat-faced boy, of all people. As she glided under his blade, she leaned back, arching gracefully as she instinctively brought her swords up in two opposing arcs which intersected at the point of his weapon. Her crossed steel shrieked as it slid swiftly down the blade of his sword to where he gripped the hilt. With a twist of her wrists, her steel grasped his and wrenched it from his hand, throwing it across the room where it struck the wall then fell to the floor with a thunderous crash of steel and stone.

As her momentum brought her to rest behind him, she rolled over and sprang up with both swords at the ready, mouth agape, hardly believing _it had worked_. Jaqen seemed to share her opinion as he stood before her, stunned, staring at his sword upon the ground then at his empty hand, then back at his sword. He turned to face her, his countenance a mirror image of hers-mouth agape, eyes projecting frank disbelief. Then, hair spread gloriously around her face and shoulders, pale cheeks now flushed with exertion and elation, she lifted the bastard sword's blunted tip to his heart, gently prodding him as she spoke the word neither of them had expected to pass her lips that day.

"Yield."

They stared at each other in silence for a while, unmoving but for the heaving of their chests until the Lorathi bowed his head in acknowledgement of the girl's victory. The Cat then collected both of her swords in her right hand and hooked her left thumb into her sword belt in a familiar gesture.

"I believe you owe me a tale," she said.


	15. Chapter 15

Though he did not again require the lying game of her (or a language lesson, for that matter), the Cat's master insisted she continue her training before she could stop and take time for the telling of stories. He did not insist on making the continuation of his tale contingent upon the _successful_ completion of a lesson of another sort but he _did _ assert that he would not engage in the entertainment until the lesson was complete. It was for this reason that the Cat had become a widow once again and would soon be walking the cobblestone lanes toward Ragman's Harbor on the arm of a faceless ship's captain who had pledged to take her back to Pentos (should anyone ask).

Jaqen had offered her the option of borrowing a face for this task, insisting that her true identity be protected, especially around the harbor where any of the Westerosi captains who might be acquainted with the _Stark look_ could possibly see her and bear the tale back to those who might wish to do her harm. She had started to reply with something akin to, "Let them come and we'll see who does the harm!" but knowing her master's mood was uncharacteristically dour ever since his walk with the Kindly Man, she instead told him she preferred a more conventional disguise for such an outing. She did not relish the notion of enduring all of the discomforts that accompanied the wearing of the face of another for an errand that was to last only a short time. He nodded his consent and she departed the training room for the storage vaults where she might find a suitable costume. Upon her arrival at their appointed meeting place (the steps of the temple), she was comfortably enrobed in the widow's garb once again, its gauzy veil adequately concealing her _Stark look_ from any potential singing birds.

When her master felt her arrive silently at his side, he grasped the edge of the delicate veil and lifted it closer to his eye for inspection, a phantom of a smile tickling his lips. It was the most mirth she had seen him display since breakfast and she hoped it meant his strangely intense mood was improving. He seemed to be appraising her choice of attire and then he brushed his thumb over a small patch of the diaphanous shroud that fell near her left shoulder and which seemed to be soiled. She wondered at his attention to this detail. After a moment, he dropped the edge of the material and watched it flutter back toward her body. When the dark veil lay lightly against her arm once again, he turned his eyes towards her face and spoke.

"Are you mourning the loss of your dignity, my little Cat?" he asked, a hint of laughter evident in his voice. "A man spied a girl tiptoeing away from it last night with bare feet and a damp linen wrap."

She inwardly grimaced, cursing his superior stealth, but looked at him shrewdly through her veil and countered, "No, I'm mourning the loss of _your_ dignity. I saw it die today when a little girl who looks more like a suckling pig took your sword from your hand and threw it across the room."

His lips spread into a true smile as he responded with twinkling eyes, "A girl should not take offense at a japing remark made in the bath. You should know, suckling pig is a man's favorite."

Her expression beneath the veil was sour and he thought he detected a faint huff escape from this little widow. As he listened and watched for any further sign of emotion, he jabbed at her once more, wondering how much she might take before losing her composure completely.

"Besides, a man's dignity was not wounded by a lucky move that could not be duplicated if a girl _or _a suckling pig had a thousand more tries in which to do so."

She felt the truth of his words settle dully in her chest. He felt their lie sharply in his. Perhaps to distract himself from the unpleasant feeling (could it be guilt?) born of not being honest with his pupil, he attempted to soften the sting of his words by teasing her gently.

"But, a man is willing to give a girl a thousand more tries for the small price of blushing so prettily again. Of course, that might require another bath…"

"Ooomph!" was the sound he heard escape her lips as she punched him in the shoulder. He made a show of rubbing the spot as if in pain, but she knew better. Beneath her veil, she rolled her eyes at him even though she was sure he couldn't see her gesture. Then, his face lost its playfulness as he prepared to take on his own disguise.

As she watched, he changed his Lorathi countenance into that of a weathered ship's captain claiming Pentoshi extraction. She shook her head, feeling, as ever, a deep sense of wonder at witnessing this feat. He had merely placed the fingertips of his right hand gently against his forehead and then closed his eyes as if paying reverence to a great king or his god. He then allowed his palm to drift slowly downward over his face as he exhaled almost imperceptibly. By the time his hand had reached his chin, he was someone else entirely. He seemed to change his face as easily as she drew breath.

"You _must_ teach me to do that someday," she murmured for the hundredth time.

He smiled at her, promising her once again that she would learn the secret of this skill after she had taken her vows. As they descended the steps of the temple together, leaving the ebony and weirwood doors behind, Arya's eyes flickered briefly to the loose stone which served to hide Needle from view. She hoped the oilcloth she had wrapped around her beloved weapon was protecting it from the rust that was almost inevitable in the sometimes stifling humidity of Braavos.

As they left the House of Black and White behind, he took her arm, displaying the common courtesy a man of his station was sure to pay a woman of hers. They walked at a leisurely pace but did not speak for several minutes. The widow finally cleared her throat and asked her mentor what it was that he expected of her today.

"There are two Faceless Men and an acolyte of the house wandering about Ragman's Harbor today," he told her as they strolled toward the docks. "It is a widow's task to identify them."

"This is a game I've not played before," she mused. "What is the point of it?"

Her master turned his false face towards hers, seeming to see her despite the veil. The face that studied hers was brown, lined, and bore a few old scars. Coarse grey hair fringed the forehead and curled around the ears. The two-pronged beard that jutted forth from his chin was a mixture of black and grey and looked even more grizzled than the windblown hair atop his head. But the eyes were warm bronze, full of fire and purpose and something else… Something she could not quite name. The eyes were undeniably those of her mentor, and they pierced hers as he answered her question.

**"**If you cannot tell a man's real face from his false, then you will never be ready. And a girl _must_ be ready**."**

There was a quiet urgency in his words that demanded acceptance and she believed him instantly—it was undeniable; she _must_ be ready. But for what?

* * *

The widow and the ship's captain seemed to be negotiating the fee for safe passage back to Pentos as they strolled arm in arm along the docks of Ragman's Harbor. The captain-who-was-Jaqen told the widow-who-was-the-Cat that she could expect a respite from her training during which he would recount his travels to her after she had correctly identified the strangers-who-were-really-brothers. She might have argued that he owed her the rest of the story regardless of the outcome of this exercise, but his mood cautioned against defiance, at least temporarily. So, she engaged in the challenge obediently, using her peripheral vision to scan the crowd as she addressed the captain, looking off as if appreciating the way the sun made the water glitter and sparkle like gemstones when she was really examining the sailors and passengers waving down from ships' decks, and comparing the attire of the people around her with the catalog of stored garb in the vaults of the House of Black and White that had found its way into her head.

Half an hour into this test, she said, "There's little Loric."

She gave the faint suggestion of a nod toward a pitiful looking beggar boy with a tear-stained face and a mop of golden curls. He was wearing nothing more than dirty rags for clothes as he squatted outside of a winesink, holding a small bowl for collecting coins from those travelers taking pity on his condition.

"A man sees a little beggar boy," the captain told her quietly. "What makes a widow so certain this boy is an acolyte?"

"Not _just _an acolyte. A specific acolyte. That's Loric!," she declared confidently. "Look at him bouncing on his heels. He couldn't sit still if his life depended on it. He's too eager, too energetic, too… _happy_ to be a beggar boy."

"Yes," the captain agreed. "A boy needs to work on his demeanor."

"Also, I think I recognize that bowl from breakfast."

The captain snorted. As they continued on past Loric and his begging bowl, the widow knew that her task would now be much harder. Identifying a green apprentice was not so difficult, no matter whose face he might be wearing, but picking out a master in a crowd would be much trickier. It was by sheer luck that she spotted the first of the two masters, not fifteen minutes after she had correctly named Loric. Well, sheer luck _and_ her impressive memory. She found herself grateful she spent so much time studying and trying to recall details. It was just such a detail that struck her and allowed her to identify one of the Faceless Men.

"That lean fellow approaching the gangway to the _Merman's Fury,_" the widow said softly as they neared the cog. She found herself wondering if that particular ship was bound for White Harbor. The name seemed to suggest it.

"What of him?" her companion asked.

"He's Faceless," she told him simply.

"And how does a widow know this man is a brother?"

"I recognize his sword," she replied. "Also, his tunic and jerkin."

"You recognize his…" her master's voice trailed off and he shook his head.

"I spend a lot of time in the storage vaults. And the armory," she shrugged. "That sword has a _very_ distinctive hilt."

They both gazed up at the man as he approached the deck of the _Merman's Fury_ and then boarded. Their eyes appraised the fine longsword at their brother's hip with its hilt wrapped in red leather and its pommel shaped like a silver skull. Though it was too far away to see from their position, the girl knew the skull boasted ruby eyes, adding to its sinister appearance. It was a thing of macabre beauty with a fine, sharp edge.

"A _very distinctive hilt_," Jaqen repeated, his tone incredulous.

"It's a lovely bit of work," the girl explained. "I've often admired it when in the armory."

He just stared at her.

"I spend a lot of time in the armory," she repeated defensively. "And I was folding_ that tunic_ when you tried to slit my throat a few days ago. A girl's not like to forget _those_ details!"

"This exercise was to recognize false _faces_, not _distinctive hilts_," her mentor grumbled at her.

"You said it was my task to identify two masters and an acolyte wandering around Ragman's Harbor," she countered. "You did _not_ say I was only  
allowed to use their faces to make my determinations."

"Just so," he conceded, "but a girl has merely identified _one_ master and an acolyte."

"But my dear captain, I'm holding the arm of the other master," she returned nonchalantly as her pace slowed to a stop and she placed her cool palm against his weathered seaman's cheek, tilting her veiled face up to look at his. Ever so delicately, she drew a whisper of a line underneath his right eye with her fingertips and continued, "And I know _t__his_ face is false because those eyes glowering at me belong to Jaqen H'ghar."

* * *

The widow requested her promised reward as they continued along the harbor in the direction of the Armorers district. The captain put her off with the protestation that the docks were no proper place for the story he had to tell. She would have to wait until they had reached an area where there were fewer prying eyes and interested ears around. This requirement piqued her curiosity.

"Where might this mystical place be?" she wondered aloud, her tone brazenly cheeky. "And can we go there _now?"_

The captain looked at her with Jaqen's eyes and in them she read his edict to mind her insolence, so she held her tongue, sensing that her master would not be moved on this matter.

As they neared the border of the Armorers District, her mind was drawn back to The Meerios Dinast Armory and the widow recalled the strange events from the previous day that had transpired inside, witnessed through a dirty window in an alleyway. She wondered if she might be able to pry any details about her master's business here out of him but did not want him to know she had followed him from Ragman's Harbor after she completed her assigned duty in the market the day before. She thought to ask, then thought the better of it, then finally gave in to the impulse, trying to disguise the intention behind her question with a sort of careless tone and words she hoped would be mistaken for the selfishness and presumption of a teenage girl.

"Jaqen," she began with a playful voice, "when you left Westeros, did you bring anything back for me?"

He snapped his head in her direction and appraised her sharply, causing her to wonder if the question had been a grave miscalculation, but then he replied without a hint of emotion, "That depends. Who are you?"

"No one," she answered automatically.

"Then no," he said dismissively, casting his eyes back on their path, "a man did not bring anything back for you."

She felt a little disappointed at his words but then she became even more curious about what was in his wooden case and what Meerios planned to do with it. She couldn't think of a way to ask about it without betraying her spying activities though, so she left it and instead began to question him about her new training regimen.

"Why did you suddenly decide I needed to learn to fight with two swords, and one of them a ridiculously large blade at that?"

"More _interesting_ questions," he remarked.

"_Jaqen_," she practically whined, "tell me!"

"That is not part of a man's tale."

"Still, I want to know."

He sighed, defeated by her annoying persistence.

"When a girl is sent abroad someday, she will need to know how to use western weapons should she ever find herself without that tiny little skewer she calls _Needle._ She must be ready to use whatever she may lay her hands upon."

Arya's heart caught in her throat. She had not believed that anyone knew she had kept Needle contrary to the Kindly Man's directive. She tried quickly to redirect the conversation.

"Sent abroad? Do you mean when I'm on a mission to deliver the gift in Westeros, like you?"

He breathed deeply and turned his bronze eyes upon her once again, his look unfathomable. After a few moments, he responded to her question.

"Yes, lovely girl. When you are sent to Westeros," he said, his tone hinting at regret.

They walked in silence, the widow thinking on her master's words; his seeming knowledge of her continued possession of Needle; his belief that she would need to master the large swords favored by western knights (even though she was certain she could dispatch them with any of the other weapons she had mastered—the list was quite long); his hint that she would likely be sent to Westeros to do the bidding of the Many-Faced god (did he mean _soon_?) She was absorbed in her contemplation of these matters as they passed Meerios' shop. That was when Jaqen's step slowed and then she felt herself nearly lifted off her feet as her master wrenched her arm and spun her around, forcing her into the alley from which she had surveilled him only one day prior.

He gripped her by her arms and skirted them both around the stacked crates that had served as the Cat's perch during her reconnaissance mission but now served only as the sunny spot for a napping black cat with a chewed ear. Her mind madly seized on the thought that it looked to be the same cat prancing upon the armory's table yesterday. The cat opened one sleepy eye to study the thing that had disturbed his nap, then lazily licked one paw and closed his eyes again. The girl felt the coarse stone of the shop's wall through her thin widow's raiment as Jaqen pushed her against it roughly. Her master glanced up at the row of dirty windows, then the stacked crates, and finally back at her covered face.

"A man's brother said that a girl smelled of the sea yesterday," he growled at her in a voice low and even but she saw his jaw muscles clenching.

"Jaqen, what are you…"

"A girl will be _silent,_" he hissed, then repeated, "A man's brother said that a girl smelled of the _sea_ and a man knew that it must be a _mistake_ because a girl was at the market all morning yesterday, doing as she was bid. _Is that not so_?"

She looked at him and her mind scrambled to choose the appropriate action. What was she supposed to do? Was she meant to answer him honestly? Was she meant to use one of her daggers to force him to release her? Was she meant to come up with some convincing lie?

She tried casting doubt on his blooming suspicion.

"I'm not sure why you think that I would..."

He cut her off again with a look, his expression cold and brooking no argument as he leaned into her, pinning her to the wall with his iron grip, radiating a sort of enveloping menace. She knew Jaqen had killed many men and imagined that he must have been terrifying in those instances, at least to his victims. But the Cat had never once been frightened of her master.

Until now.

He pulled the shroud from over her face and said in a deceptively sweet voice, "How did your veil get so soiled, lovely girl?"

She tilted her head slightly up and over toward the wall, her eyes flickering past the stacked crates and their napping tenant, up to the familiar window with its small area of partially cleaned glass, an accusing circle of clarity amidst the smudged dirt, and then thought to herself, "A lie won't work. The dagger, then."

As she met his eyes, she flexed her hand and then scraped her arm against the wall. In this way, she was just able to loosen the leather strap that held the small blade flat against her wrist and slip the cool steel into her hand. The widow had not gotten a proper grip before her master struck, quick as a viper, grasping her wrist and slamming the hand back hard against the wall twice, causing her to utter a curse. Her grasp weakened just enough so that he could snatch her blade away from her. He clutched both her dagger and wrist in his one hand, pressing her forearm flat against the stone wall as his other hand tightened its grip on her opposite arm. His eyes surveyed her small knife and he clicked him tongue at her in an annoying gesture such as one might use to chastise a naughty child.

"Come now, lovely girl," he said, his voice patronizing, "you would not really stab a man."

Her look said otherwise. He shrugged genially (as much as a man could shrug while restraining a Faceless Man-in-training) and looked back toward the window that had given her away.

"What was a Cat looking for on her perch?" he wondered.

"What was in the box, Jaqen?"

"Where does a girl keep her other blades? A man knows she carries no less than three."

A silent glare passed between them, neither answering the question that had been asked by the other. He shrugged again and then in one swift move, had spun her around so that her cheek met the warm stone of the wall and her chest was pressed hard against it as he pulled both of her wrists behind her back, pinning them in that uncomfortably bent position with one of his strong hands as the other hand began feeling along her leg through her skirt. She protested and cursed him but he said nothing and then his hand found the hard shape of a blade through her dress, strapped to her thigh. He bent over, pulling her arms back painfully as he pushed his elbow into her lower spine and then gripped the hem of her skirt to lift it, intent on removing the dagger. The widow's cheek was scraping the wall, her face pointed toward the crates, her mouth spewing insults at her master when she saw the napping cat suddenly rise and stretch his back. Their eyes met and then the widow closed hers. She could still see her master, sliding his hand along her leg, reaching for the dagger she had hidden under her skirts, and then there was a hiss and the cat leapt from his perch onto Jaqen's shoulder. The next few seconds were a chaotic rush of feline yowls, some scratching claws and a man grunting and cursing. Then the cat shot down the alley away from the scene and the widow's arms had been released by the captain as he growled in frustration and checked the wound on his neck for blood.

She turned around, leaning against the wall and panting while he leaned against the wall across the narrow alley, holding his hand to his neck, his look grim. Presently, she crossed the small space between them and stood in front of him, gently taking his hand and pulling it away from his wound.

"Let me see that," she said, inspecting the three linear scratches the screamed red on his neck. They were not so bad, just oozing a little blood, but were like to leave some scars. She removed the veil from her hair and bunched it up, dabbing gently at the wound. The captain looked over her head at the opposite wall, saying nothing. When she was satisfied that the wound had stopped bleeding, she replaced the veil in her hair and carefully lowered it over her face. She stepped away from him and he pushed off the wall and turned toward the canal as if to leave the alley, but then turned back to face her.

"A girl plays a dangerous game. A man does not think she understands what is at stake."

With that, he offered her his arm. Tentatively, she took it and the two walked out of the alleyway together as if nothing were amiss, following the cobblestone lane through the Armorers district.


	16. Chapter 16

The two servants of the Many-Faced god walked in silence through the Armorers district, arm-in-arm, so close that a widow's shoulder frequently brushed a captain's bicep, but feeling worlds apart. The widow's mind was sorting through the many enigmas she seemed to continually stumble upon while at the same time trying to ignore a gnawing sense of culpability for her master's slight wound.

"Don't be stupid," she thought to herself. "It's not your fault some cranky cat scratched him!" No sooner had she thought it when a tiny voice somewhere in the back of her head whispered, "_B__ut isn't it?"_

At the same time the widow's mind was warring with itself, the captain was becoming more and more convinced of the inevitability of that which he had tried so hard to prevent. Though his false face was placid, he was filled with a sense of frustration that he was playing a game of _cyvasse_ while blindfolded, with a set of rules which he was only allowed to partially know. He had learned long ago to trust his gut though, and his gut said he still needed to save this girl, even if he wasn't completely sure how to accomplish this feat. It would certainly help if his apprentice did not insist on charging headlong toward her own doom with that stubborn disregard for her security which infuriated him.

Almost as if she had plucked the thoughts from his head and read them, the Cat spoke hesitantly to her mentor from beneath her veil, saying quietly, "It's not that I _strive_ to be disobedient, master."

Her words nearly stopped him in his tracks. She only ever called him "master" when she was truly contrite, which was _almost never_. The phrasing commanded his attention and he waited for her to elaborate.

"There are just so many things I do not understand just now. It seems that thrice daily, some new strange thing is said or occurs or is asked of me, and I have this strong sense of… or rather, I feel that…"

She stumbled over her words as she struggled to explain her perception that she was hurtling through the darkness toward her destiny; a destiny she did not comprehend or choose; a destiny that felt unformed, nebulous, even sinister. It was an ominous feeling that seemed to push and pull her in directions she did not intend to go. It was a feeling that chewed and scratched and demanded to be explored. It was a feeling that denied her peace and _prevented_ her unquestioning obedience despite her best intentions. It was a feeling that rejected her endeavor to become _no one._

He rescued her from her struggle to put all the she felt into words with his typical discernment, telling her gently, "A man knows."

_Of course he knows._

She nodded at him, then asked, "How's your neck?"

She read the disdain in his false face, knowing it was stupid to ask a dangerous assassin if his little scratch still hurt, but she wanted some relief from that tiny burning ember in her chest that she attributed to her guilt for all that had occurred, the whole bloody incident. She supposed she would have to settle for the fact that he considered the wound too unworthy for even a few words. They continued walking the along lane that bordered the canal, her mentor gazing softly into the distance, seeing something she could not see and thinking thoughts she could not know.

"There is so little time, lovely girl," her master finally said to her, his voice grave and resigned.

"Yes, only a month," she responded in a hoarse whisper.

Jaqen sighed with a sound she might have taken for despair if it didn't cause panic to well up within her to think of _this _man despairing of anything. He turned his molten bronze eyes to her, letting them trace the faint outline of her face through the gauzy material shielding it, telling her, "A girl should not be listening in on conversations in the courtyard like one of a eunuch's little birds. Not all things are meant for your ears, foolish child."

Through the veil, her cheeks burned. She hadn't thought before she'd spoken; hadn't intended for him to think her a _sneak_ and a _spy_ but twice now in the last half hour, she had painted herself as such.

"I didn't mean to eavesdrop," she muttered sullenly. "I was there first. You two surprised _me_."

"And did a man and his elder also force a girl to hide from sight?"

She said nothing, nursing the feeling that this was all colossally unfair. She had been innocently trying to stretch her sore muscles in the courtyard when her masters had intruded upon _her _seclusion, not the other way around. As for following Jaqen from Ragman's Harbor to the Armorers district, well, there was no dictate against such a thing. She had merely been curious. She was soon distracted from her sense of being unjustly persecuted however, when her mentor changed course and steered them over one of the bridges that crossed the Long Canal.

"Where are we going?" the widow inquired.

"A man finds he is hungry. It is near time for the midday meal," the captain replied.

"Well, you're going the wrong way if you expect Umma to feed you," she laughed.

"A man's duty does not permit him to return to the temple just yet."

"What duty?" the girl asked, sounding both confused and diverted.

"A duty to tell a grieving widow a tale of travels which she may find interesting."

A smile lit up her hidden face and the pair proceeded through the streets of Braavos toward the Moon Pool and its surrounding taverns and alehouses, where locals and travelers alike might find a meal of good quality. After a short while, they were seated in the common room of a reputable inn overlooking the Moon Pool, drinking watered wine and awaiting their food. Soon, a buxom tavern wench with a pleasant demeanor was setting platters of roasted chicken and carrots before them. The meat and vegetables were perfectly charred, sticky with honey and spiced with fennel and peppers. The smell was divine.

The widow was faced with the conundrum of eating with a veil covering her face, but as they were situated in the furthest corner of the dim chamber and she was seated with her back toward the half-full room, she chanced lifting the veil and placing its edge on top of her head, forming a sort of delicate hood. When her master said nothing, she began to eat her meal.

The wine, though weakened, emboldened her as the captain paused to slowly lick the honey from his fingertips, obviously savoring the sweet flavor. She leaned towards him across their narrow table and whispered once again one of the thousand questions that had been dancing in her head for a day.

"Jaqen, what was in the box you gave to Meerios?"

The captain did not stop sucking at the honey on his fingers even as his gaze rose from his plate to her exposed face. His eyes bore into hers and after a minute, with a voice calm and low, he answered her question with one of his own.

"Did a girl take her vows while a man was away and then forget to tell him?"

"What? _No…_"

"Oh!" he emoted, "Well, then did a girl enter the order as a Faceless Man at some point in these last two weeks? A man has been so distracted with a girl's follies of late, it is possible he missed this detail."

"What are you talking…"

"_No one_ does not _need_ what is in that box," he interrupted before she could complete her sentence. "_No one_ does not need to _know_ what is in that box. It is not _no one's _ business to pry into these matters meant for her masters. This is not for a man to discuss with _no one_."

Humbled by his tone and his rebuke, the curious Cat sat back in her chair, feeling her cheeks burn as she stared down at her plate. She lifted a forkful of charred, honeyed carrots to her mouth and chewed them with a deliberate listlessness. Her master returned to his meal, but only momentarily. He breathed heavily, pushing back from the table and crossing his arms while giving her a hard stare.

She felt his eyes on her and looked up, swallowing her last bit of vegetables. The two prongs of the captain's Pentoshi beard pointed down at his half-eaten food and it was plain that he had something to say; something more important than finishing his chicken. When her master finally spoke, his words were not the ones the girl had expected.

"Do you trust a man?"

She wrinkled her brow at his ridiculous question. Did she trust him? Only with her life. Only with her future. Only with her dreams and purpose and path. Only with her _everything._

Her momentary silence chafed him so he repeated his question but with a little more emphasis.

"Do you _trust_ a man, willful girl?"

Her thoughts fluttered back over the years, touching on all the men in whom she had once placed her trust. To her father, with his unspoken but painfully evident love for her. To Jon, with his tender affection and admirable tolerance of her childish foibles. To Syrio, who had died for her; who had gifted her with his own belief that it mattered not whether she was a girl or a boy because she was worthy of teaching simply because she had the desire to learn. To the heartbreak of Gendry's betrayal. To her disappointment in Harwin, who she had believed would save her and reunite her with her mother and Robb. To two dead tormentors sacrificed to the Red god by the hand of a man who deemed himself beholden to a little mouse, making her into a fearful ghost of awesome power. To an iron coin, heavy in her small palm, a key to her freedom that she did not have any right to expect.

The girl met her master's watchful eyes and said, "I trust you more than I trust any man alive."

He nodded his head twice, accepting her words, inhaling deeply as if taking some sort of strength from them. His false face remained impassive but his eyes were out of place in that placid seafarer's visage. They showed no passivity at all, only a powerful sort of determination. Placing his elbow on their table, he brought his face to his fist, pressing his mouth and nose against the clenched fingers as he turned his eyes to her face, now pale as the weirwood door of their temple. He continued to study her as he unfolded his hand and placed a finger across his lips, thumb stroking his bearded chin pensively. She awaited his words in stillness, a stillness the Kindly Man would have surely praised.

"A time will come when a girl will be asked to do a certain thing," he finally said. "When this happens, a girl must obey."

She nodded slightly, understanding. And, _not_ understanding.

"A girl _must_ obey," Jaqen reiterated. "Whatever the thing is, she must do it."

His gaze was compelling and the warning it carried was stark and unassailable. He remained silent for a moment to allow his words to sink in.

"_Whatever the thing is,_" he repeated, leaning toward her.

"I must do it," she confirmed.

"Just so."

She nodded again, this time more forcefully, intending to convey her comprehension and obedience. It was not enough for her master.

"A girl must promise. A girl must _swear_ to a man."

Jaqen had never before asked her for her oath. This unusual command startled her and the surprise she felt showed in her small frown. Her mentor was not deterred. He reached for her across the table, grasping her forearms tightly in his vise-like hands, holding her firmly and pinning her in place with his bronze eyes, the stare demanding her submission. A small part of her bristled at that, as she always had whenever being directed to do something that made her uncomfortable (or, in truth, whenever she was told to do _anything at all _that was not first her own idea). But the intensity of his gaze and his words, his singular determination to have her comply with his urgent command, and his insistent want of her fealty bound her to his will despite her resistance.

"I swear, Jaqen. I will do my duty."

"_Whatever_ is asked," he prompted her.

"I will do my duty, whatever is asked."

Satisfied, he released her with both his hands and his eyes. He returned to his plate as if nothing extraordinary had just occurred. He chewed his chicken with vigor, making a sort of appreciative "hmmm" sound and smiled at her as he did. She gaped at him in astonishment. Her appetite was gone, taken by the burden of her unanswered questions, a long list which had just grown longer as she added, "What is this thing I must do without question?" to it. She pushed her plate away and Jaqen looked at the portion of her uneaten chicken, his eyebrows lifted. His question apparent, she sighed and waved her hand in a gesture of indifference.

"Go ahead," she said.

Grinning broadly, he stabbed the meat with his knife and moved it from her plate to his own. She shook her head and rolled her eyes in a gesture that conveyed both fondness and disapproval, then finished the last of her watered wine and called the giddy tavern wench over to bring her another cup. After her cup was refilled (and then emptied again) and after she tired of watching a grizzled captain chew, the widow crossed her arms over her chest and rested her bored gaze upon her companion's face.

"Is this place sufficiently free of interested ears and prying eyes and other pestering body parts?" she questioned.

Her master laughed, surveying the room. The tables nearest to theirs were all empty, but he still seemed reluctant to speak his tale in this place. He called over the tavern girl once more and spoke something in her ear. Her eyes widened and then a fit of giggles overtook her as she looked knowingly at the widow. The Cat lowered the veil over her face once again and this seemed to inspire even more ridiculous tittering from the plump serving girl. The wench nodded to the captain, then departed as he said to the widow, "A man hopes you do not mind that your reputation is now forever ruined. A girl may wish to choose other raiment when next she attends this part of town."

The Cat gave her master a bewildered look which turned to alarmed understanding when the tavern girl returned and Jaqen placed some coins in her palm in exchange for a key. He then led a seething widow up the back stairs of the inn, to a large and comfortable room with a bed, a table and chairs, and a fireplace that they had no need of.

"So I suppose now everyone down there thinks I'm a whore in widow's clothing?" she spat at him as soon as he closed the door behind them.

He shrugged nonchalantly, saying, "Perhaps, but there weren't very many people there to think it. Besides, a girl is not a whore, she is _no one._"

She growled at him and flung herself into one of the chairs, ripping the veil from her hair and dropping it on the low table near her while kicking off the silly little slippers that completed her widow's disguise. They were too dainty to be sensible for parading all around Braavos in anyway, and her feet were feeling the impracticality of them deeply. She rubbed at her abused toes sullenly as her master dropped upon the soft bed, leaning back comfortably against the headboard, feather pillows piled behind him. She scowled at his easy and relaxed pose.

"What is it, lovely girl?" he asked, all innocence. "Does a girl wish the share a man's bed?"

As he spoke those words, he patted the empty space beside him and inclined his head in invitation.

"Ugh!" she groaned with impatience. "Jaqen, I swear to the old gods and the new, if you don't get on with this story, I will take one of the daggers you didn't manage to pilfer from me and I will stab you through your arrogant bronze eye!"

"A man's eyes are bronze?" he questioned teasingly, grinning at her. "He had always just considered them brown. Imagine—it took a lovely girl to notice that they have been _bronze_ all this time."

A strangled cry sputtering from her lips, she pulled one side of her skirt up to her thigh with a violence she hadn't felt since she had tacked the rat-faced boy to the training room door many moons ago with her malevolent little knives. She wrenched her small dagger from the leather strap that held it against her leg but before it could fly from her hand, her master was in front of her, gripping her left wrist with one hand as he relieved her of her weapon with his other, chuckling all the while in his irritating way.

"Shhh, lovely girl," he soothed, his laughter still causing his voice to bounce and waver. "A man merely japes. An impetuous apprentice still needs time to learn how to rule her face, it seems."

He still held her at the wrist, immobilizing her arm, and gave her a meaningful look.

"What?" she demanded petulantly.

"A man will have the last of your blades before he begins his tale. He does not intend to be skewered mid-sentence if a girl does not like what he has to say."

She glowered at him, but slipped her fingers deftly into the high neckline of her bodice and pulled out the last of her small knives. Jaqen smirked at her and accepted it, then placed all three of her blades, the two he had just received and the one he had taken from her in the armory alley, on the small table on the far side of the bed. He then sat on the edge of the bed nearest his apprentice and leaned over his thighs, his hands on his knees, arms bracing his torso.

"Now," her master started suddenly, "where were we?"


	17. Chapter 17

"Daenerys and Aegon," the Cat said as a reminder to her master of where he had left off in his telling.

"Yes," he agreed. "The last Targaryens in the world. Interesting that they should both be in Dorne with their creatures. Interesting, but not surprising."

"_Their_ creatures?"

"A man assumes so. It seems inevitable, don't you agree?"

She thought about it for a minute, but could see no reason the two would not join their forces. They would likely even marry, joining one silver-haired dragon to another. That had been the Targaryen tradition since the first Aegon landed in Westeros and began burning his way across the land with his sisters.

"So, you saw a disturbing number of dragons concentrated in one area, likely plotting to reduce my homeland to ash," the Cat summarized. "Then what?"

"Then a man then rode for the Reach, trying to pass through the land unnoticed so as not to be slowed."

"You were in a hurry to get somewhere?"

"A man was in haste to get _everywhere_," he corrected. "There was much to see, much to be accomplished, and much he was missing at home."

She thought about that, too. It seemed as if he was saying he was sent out by the order to _spy_. Or, perhaps, more than that—to do… _something_. But not to give the gift. Was there no contract that brought him to Westeros? Or, did he have a contract that simply coincided with the work his guild also required be done for their own purposes? And here, he had just implied he wanted to be done with his tasks and return to Braavos as quickly as possible. But why? To oversee her training? To serve on the council and take his place in the governance of the Faceless Men? Or, was there something else? She was unsure, her thoughts tangling and spinning, but said nothing so that he would continue. Jaqen seemed surprised by her lack of comment and questioning but resumed his story after a brief pause.

"This journey was slower than the ride to Dorne had been. Many days and nights were spent on the open road, listening to the howls of the wolves in the night. Sometimes a man might find an inn with a room and a bit of food for coin, though none as good as what a girl just ate downstairs. It is a hard time in the west just now. Autumn has waned and the beginnings of true winter are apparent, even as far south as the Riverlands."

"So you rode for the Riverlands?" the Cat prodded, her memories pricking painfully at the edge of her concentration as her master spoke of her mother's girlhood home.

"Yes, the Riverlands. There is a certain woman of great power, a dwarf in truth, who lives in that land, and a man had to speak with her."

"Why?"

"She possessed…" he began, carefully considering his words, then continued, "…certain information important to the order."

"The ghost of High Heart," Arya guessed in a whisper.

Jaqen looked at her strangely then stood and began pacing the length of the room, back and forth. He seemed to be considering his next words carefully.

"Are you trying to decide what you should tell me?" the girl asked him, startling him out of his thoughts. She knew that the ghost often said things that might be considered… _disturbing_.

He stopped in place, arms folded, head turned down as if considering the wear on his boots. His next words came without any change in his position. He spoke without looking at her.

"A man is trying to decide what is safe for a girl to know."

She stiffened, sitting up straighter in her seat, feeling that uncomfortable tingle along her spine that came whenever she sensed danger.

"Who do I have to fear, Jaqen? Does the Kindly Man not want me to know what you were doing in Westeros? Are you risking the ire of the order by telling me these things?" she speculated. "Or are there people in King's Landing or at Casterly Rock or in the Iron Islands who are intent on wiping out my line? Do you think someone is coming after me _here_? _Who_ is the danger to me?"

After each of her questions, he shook his head to indicate that she had not correctly understood his worry. When she asked who the danger to her was, he sighed deeply and lifted his head, taking his eyes from the floor and resting them on her tense face.

"You are, lovely girl."

This was not the revelation she was expecting. She drew back, frowning, then turned her head to the side, trying to interpret her master's meaning. It suddenly struck her that the answer was simple. Jaqen was hesitant to tell her things he thought she might react to by demanding to be freed from her obligations so that she could pursue her revenge in Westeros. She supposed it was a valid concern, but if she hadn't stowed away on a ship bound for Maidenpool by now, she was doubtful anything her master could say about his travels abroad would inspire such an impetuous action.

"You can tell me anything," the Cat assured him. "I promise I won't run away in the night."

His look was grave but he gave her a half-smirk, saying, "A girl gets better and better at reading a man. So, since a man no longer has to worry about a girl trying to swim to Westeros clenching Needle between her teeth or stealing the face of a cabin boy to try to gain work on a ship, earning her way across the narrow sea, the story may continue, yes?"

_Steal the face of a cabin boy in order to gain passage on a ship bound for Westeros, using her labor as fare?_

She was embarrassed that she had never thought of it. But then, there was little left for her across the sea anymore. Her home and her purpose were now in Braavos, among the brothers and masters and elders of the House of Black and White. At least, she was trying very hard to convince herself that this was the case. However, her master's hesitancy to tell her something for _fear_ it could cause her to flee to Westeros had piqued her interest. She couldn't imagine anything, short of learning that a red priest had somehow brought her father back to life, that would inspire her to run away to the place that had once been her home; the place that had been the stage for every heartbreak in her life; the place that had been witness to nearly every painful thing she had ever experienced.

There was nothing that could draw her back across the sea now.

"_Nymeria_," said that little voice in the back of her head. "_Sansa. Jon. Gendry_. And _Ser Gregor, __Dunsen, Raff the Sweetling, Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei."_

She gave no indication of her troubled thoughts and nodded to her master, indicating that he could continue with his account of his travels. Jaqen resumed his pacing, starting and stopping his words several times.

"This dwarf is… she is a very _unusual_… she said the most interesting… well, she told a man…"

The Cat realized that her mentor was not aware that she had actually met the ghost during her life in Westeros. He was trying to explain the strange little dwarf woman and failing because he did not grow up with tales of the children of the forest and greenseers and direwolves. Here in Essos, the children likely heard tales of warlocks and shadowbinders and, more recently, dragons as they grew up. He had no point of reference for this extraordinary prophesier. She found herself thinking that he could have benefitted from the Lorathi version of Old Nan when he was a boy.

Her mind was suddenly filled with wondering about Jaqen as a boy. A slight snicker escaped her as she pictured him in the temple, a green acolyte, training with his master, being swatted repeatedly with a blunted blade as he learned how to _dance_. The sound of her mirth caused him to look at her curiously. She had no wish to reveal her thoughts, so she deflected his interest by asking a question.

_"_Did the ghost ask you for a kiss?"

Again, he gave her that strange look.

"How does a girl know what the ghost said to a man?"

"She always asks the handsome men to kiss her," the Cat replied simply.

"The face the man wore was not so handsome. It was that of a plain Dornishman, even slightly pock-marked."

The girl reflected on this, then told him, "She has a way of… _seeing_ the truth of things. I doubt your false face fooled her."

"Just so," Jaqen agreed. "A man offered gold for her words, but all the woods witch wanted was a kiss to tell all she knew."

Here he paused. She waited for him to continue but then a thought struck her and her snickering returned as she was overwhelmed with amusement.

"Oh, Jaqen, you didn't actually _do_ it, did you?"

His face was as passive as hers was delighted. Her eyes grew wide at his lack of denial and she slapped one hand over her mouth as if to contain her merriment, but failed as she convulsed momentarily with a fit of ridiculous giggling.

"That's just something she _says_," she laughed, finding it difficult to breathe. "I've seen her reveal everything for a song!"

"A girl knows this woods witch?" her mentor asked, sounding astonished. "You have actually seen her? _Spoken_ with her?"

"Yes. I'm sorry, was that not obvious?" she asked with a tone of amusement, biting back her laughter. "I saw her twice, though she only spoke to me once. How else would I know about the kiss?"

He ignored her question and said, "A man would know what she said to you."

"I'm more interested in what she said to _you_," the girl countered. "_Especially_ at such a price!"

He gave her a hard look, but she was enjoying the feeling of having something with which to torment her master, especially after his various antics over the past few days, and did not let up.

"So, you kissed her, just because she said to? If she'd told you to unlace your breeches and pull out your…"

"Mind your tongue, insolent girl. A man paid the woods witch the reverence she was due as one so ancient and powerful. Her memory goes back to the time of the first men."

"It sounds like she added some _very interesting_ memories to her collection during your visit," the Cat chuckled.

Her master was not amused. He crossed the space between them swiftly, appearing before her so quickly that she barely had time to react, though she instinctively reached for the wrist blade she no longer possessed. He grasped her chin in his hand and forced her face up so that he was probing her winter grey eyes with a penetrating look that hinted at the savagery of which he was capable.

"There are things a girl must know," he intoned slowly, his sultry purr belying the violence in his bronze eyes. "Things which are _important_."

He pulled his hand away from her face, dropping it to hook his thumb in his sword belt. The smile faded from her lips and her laughter died as she cast her eyes toward the floor in contrition. She scolded herself for childishness then looked at her master's false face and true eyes, nodding her acknowledgement of his authority in this matter.

"A man would know what this witch said to you," he repeated and the girl supposed she could express her penitence by telling her own tale.

"She said a great many things," the Cat began, "but what she said to _me_ was that I was a blood child and smelled of death. She told me that I was cruel to come to her hill and that I had a dark heart. She wanted no part of me. She told me to go away."

"Is that all?"

The girl's face became lined with concentration as she recalled that moment in her past; Lord Beric, defending his highborn captive in his gentle way; Lem, with his soiled cloak once bright enough for a Bravo to wear, nursing a broken nose and some resentment against her. The ghost, telling them that travelling to Riverrun was an error, for her mother would be elsewhere.

"No," the girl said softly, her look pensive. "No, that was not all. Well, yes, it was all she said to _me_, but to Lord Beric, she said my mother had quit Riverrun and would be found at the Twins. She said that there was to be a wedding…"

Her voice drifted off and she felt an odd sensation crawling up her neck, causing a painful tightness in the back of her throat. Her nose burned, her eyes twitched, and she pinched her mouth tightly, biting her bottom lip until she tasted blood. She had not thought of it in all these years; had never replayed that scene in her head with the hindsight she now possessed. _The ghost knew her mother and brother would be slaughtered. She had seen it._ Clenching her fists tightly, nails digging into her palms in a vain attempt to rule her face, she drowned in the sudden realization that she had been so close to the discovery of the awful truth, before it _was_ truth, but her chance to affect the future and save her family had been snatched away. The ghost knew about the Red Wedding, before there _was_ a Red Wedding, and had not warned her. Had she known…

Jaqen watched her with alarm as her face blanched white and a muffled sound escaped her nose and mouth. Her lips parted and the blood on them contrasted with her white face as starkly as the red stained tears of the weirwood trees in all the godswoods of the world contrasted with their white bark. Her eyes turned to grey ash and she whispered two words with a voice so full of anguish, it was hard for him bear it.

"She _knew._"

Her hands flew to her face, covering her nose and mouth, attempting to tamp down the grief that strained to burst forth from deep within her. A single tear escaped her vigilant guard, tracing its languid path down her pale cheek. Her face, so devoid of color that she more closely resembled the marble likeness of her Aunt Lyanna that stood watch over her tomb than the live girl herself, became immobile, frozen in a masque of desolation and wretchedness.

Her master interpreted her words and her posture immediately, reading the torment and guilt that were marring her features, encumbering her, choking her with an icy grip and threatening to send her into madness. He pulled her to her feet and crushed her thin frame against his own, wrapping his arms protectively around her, enveloping her in rosemary and cloves and the clean smell of leather. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeply, letting the scent of the leather call back other memories which were less harrowing.

"What could a tiny wisp of a girl have done? What could a captive child with no training, no weapon, and nothing but fierce loyalty and love for her family have done against the thousands of men at the Twins?" her mentor murmured soothingly as her hands clenched at his leather jerkin.

She felt Jaqen's arms tighten around her and his chin rest lightly against the top of her head, heard his consoling sounds meant to calm her, and recalled her father's embrace and the strong arms of her older brothers, especially Jon. When they had held her to comfort her after some small childhood hurt, it gave her a feeling of safety; of being secure and safeguarded, even cherished. She felt the same contentment now, in Jaqen's arms. His unyielding embrace eased her fears and guilt and settled deep into her bones. Jaqen pressed his lips into her hair, kissing the top of her head gently as he spoke soft words of comfort in his native tongue. The tension in her muscles, the knot in her stomach, and the prickle of her spine all eased. And then she grimaced.

Because it was a lie.

No man's arms could protect her. Valyrian steel was not required to remove a man from this world and relieve him of his vow to shield those for whom he cared. Sinew and bone were cleaved as easily as Umma's lamprey pie, even with the weakest of blades. No gesture, no protective arms, no noble intentions translated to immunity from pain and death and the evil intentions of men. Her father, in all his greatness, had failed to prevent her from witnessing every horror that men were capable of perpetrating, starting with his own violent death. Her brother Robb, despite his elevation to the highest seat of power as had ever existed in the North, could not save himself, much less her. And _Jon_; Sweet Jon, the bastard brother who indulged her and understood her and loved her more than any true born brother ever could; Jon who rose to the most revered position he could ever hope to attain, _Lord Commander _of the Night's Watch, could offer her no defense from peril while sitting atop his icy seat on the wall, despite all the love he might feel for her.

She breathed deeply, steadying herself, and pushed away from her master's chest, leaving one palm resting over his heart, feeling its steady drumbeat signal the immediacy of life even as she considered the sovereignty of death. She used her other hand to scrub away all evidence of her single, traitorous tear and gave Jaqen a sad smile.

"A girl would know what the ghost said to her master," she said weakly, mimicking his pattern of speech to show she was capable of jesting, even now.

He peered at her face, now composed, and weighed her strength. His false face was as placid as ever but she read the concern in his eyes. She knew he was wondering if telling this part of his tale was a mistake, but it was too late now. She tried to reassure him.

"How much worse could it be, Jaqen? Nearly everyone I loved has been murdered, I have almost no family left and those who remain are still lost to me. You don't have to protect me. _Tell me_," she urged. "What did the ghost of High Heart say to you?"

"Much and more," was his considered answer and then he refused to say anything else until he had called down for wine to settle her. The same buxom tavern wench delivered a pale Pentoshi amber in an open carafe with two goblets and a loaf of fresh bread, her eyes widening in surprise to see the undisturbed bed and the widow slumped in a chair with her veil covering her face.

"Oh!" she exclaimed as she laid the fare on the table next to the widow, but said nothing more as the captain slipped her a coin and sent her on her way. Once the door had shut behind her, the widow removed her veil once again and dropped it on the other side of the just-delivered tray.

Jaqen poured her a cup of wine and placed it in her hands. She began to protest that she was fine and that she didn't usually drink much wine anyway, but he obstinately refused to hear her and said he would not continue his story until she had drunk it. So, she did. And when she felt the warmth of the liquid reach her toes, she curled them and uncurled them a few times, smiling, then reached for the crusty loaf and tore off a heel, chewing a piece as she looked back at her mentor, indicating that he should continue.

"A man approached High Heart under the dark of night," he started. "Wolves howled at the full moon but they sounded far away."

By his description of the moon, she reasoned that it had taken him a good while to reach High Heart, but she did not interrupt him to verify her conclusion. He described how the moon shone so brightly that it was almost as if he had a torch in his hand to aid him in finding the path to the circle of weirwood stumps. There, at their center, he found the dwarf who was a woods witch, the one called the ghost of High Heart, and she turned to him and said that she had been waiting for him.

_The tiny woman had a voice that crackled like old parchment when she spoke. Her eyes were red and her hair was long and white and twisted, nearly brushing the ground. She radiated a power that he could sense as he stepped into the circle of bone-white stumps and greeted her by dropping to one knee and bowing his head. She had laughed at that, telling him she was no queen to be exalted or god to be worshipped and bade him rise._

_"A man has come to…" he began but she cut him off with her scratchy voice, waving two raised fingers in front of his face._

_"I know why you have come, assassin."_

_He was surprised by her words, that she had seen through his facelessness, but he said nothing. She asked him what he intended to offer her in exchange for what he wanted and he said he was prepared to give her any sum of gold she required. She laughed again._

_"I have no use for gold nor silver nor coppers, but I will tell you what you wish to know for a kiss."_

_Without hesitation, he took her hand and pressed the Dornishman's lips to the thin flesh stretched over the dwarf's knuckles in a sign of reverence for her age and wisdom and power. She seemed touched by his gesture and placed her hand on his face as his head remained bowed, kissing her hand._

_"Sweet boy," she said sadly, causing him to look up at her with mild amusement._

_"A man has not been a boy, sweet or otherwise, in some time."_

_"When you have walked this land and witnessed a thousand thousand sunsets, all men are boys."_

_"Please," he whispered, "tell the thing a man must know."_

_"Kiss my mouth, boy," she countered, "and all will be revealed."_

_Stooping over to reach the wizened woman's upturned face, he pressed his lips to hers in a chaste kiss, closing his eyes and feeling his body shudder with her power. She pulled away from him as if he had burnt her with his touch and gasped, rubbing the feeling of him from her flesh frantically with the back of her hand._

_"You taste familiar, Lorathi!" she cried._

_"A man is Dornish," he corrected her, stepping away from her wringing hands._

_She gave him a displeased look and waved her hand toward his face twice in a sort of gesture of dismissal, erasing all traces of the Dornishman and returning him to his own Lorathi countenance. Startled, he placed his hands on his face, feeling his features and then stumbled backwards, coming to rest heavily on one of the weirwood stumps surrounding them._

_"I taste death on you," she told him, "but more death than you have dealt. It is another's guilt there, the one whose lips you savor, and it is familiar to me."_

_He gave her a confused look and she shrugged, explaining, "The one you kiss. The one you have kissed. The one you _will_ kiss. Past. Present. Future. In my dreams, they are no different."_

_"You know what a man seeks," he probed, brushing off her strange words._

_"Yes, and I know why you seek it," she replied and then gave him a shrewd look, continuing, "although I do not think that _you_ know why you seek it."_

_He was about to protest but decided it wasn't important to correct this woman's perceptions, only to do his duty and find the answers he needed to continue his quest._

_The witch walked closer to him, standing before him and speaking in her dry, crackling voice, sounding very much as if she needed to wet her throat. She told him as much and he walked to his horse to retrieve a skin of wine from his saddlebag and handed it to her. He remained standing, wishing for her to feel his presence and understand his seriousness of purpose._

_"Oh, sit down, Lorathi," she scolded with impatience. "You'll no more harm me than you would _her_. Besides, I was just about to tell you of my dream."_

_He said nothing but sat once again on the weirwood stump nearest him and waited patiently for her to finish his wine. When she did, she complemented its quality._

_"A man picked it up in the Reach," he told her. "Now, what do you have to tell?"_

_"I dreamed of a monstrous creature, death walking with six legs, who eats men's hearts and drinks their blood; who poisons their fruits and carves holes in their chests with cold steel; who can deal death as easily in dreams as in wakefulness. The creature was born of honor and nobility but became the daughter of corpses. Her father now peers over the great city with eyes that do not see and her mother is now an unnatural thing cloaked in grey, consumed by hatred."_

_He sat up straighter, trying to unravel her meaning, feeling a sense of foreboding as she continued her description of her dream._

_"The lady and her daughter share their unbending resolve for revenge, the lady cherishing it as the only feeling contained within her stony heart, and the monstrous creature knowing its fire as the only light within her own darkened heart. They sup at two separate tables but their meals are the same. Vengeance is their bread and retribution is their wine."_

_"Why are you telling these things?" he asked the ghost. "You know what a man seeks."_

_"Yes," she agreed. "And what you seek resides with the mother."_

_"How is that possible? She… she was not buried. How will a man find this thing? Should he dredge the river in hopes of capturing it?"_

_"She was not buried, aye," crackled the papery voice, "but walks still. And she has your precious artifact."_

_Jaqen placed his hand on either side of him, gripping the stump and leaning forward toward the woods witch, and asking in a slow, deliberate voice so as not to be misunderstood, "Are you saying that Catelyn Stark is still alive?"_

_"Yes, my boy, and no. Catelyn Stark is no more—you seek Lady Stoneheart."_

Here, her mentor stopped his tale, watching as Arya leapt to her feet at his words, swaying slightly from the effects of the wine, mind swimming, trying to find the words to ask… to say what she thought… hoped but did not dare believe…

"Lady Stoneheart?" was all she managed to rasp out, clutching at her master's arm.

He grasped her hands in his and looked sadly at her face, speaking in a near whisper as he said, "Yes, sweet child. Lady Stoneheart is your mother."


	18. Chapter 18

Arya sat for a long time in silence, staring across the room, her eyes seeing a succession of images rather than the rough planks of the door bolted shut. It was her mother that she saw most often; her mother how she _had_ been, alive, fierce yet gentle, and beautiful; smiling at her Lord husband and her charming eldest children, Robb and Sansa, when they showed some evidence of their accomplishments; frowning with both exasperation and a touch of worried fondness at her youngest girl when she would straggle in from the godswood, wet and dirty, ruined dress dripping or torn, with her fuzzy direwolf pup in tow, padding muddy paw prints across the rush-covered stone floors of the great hall. She saw the ghost of High Heart, too, her red eyes full of ancient wisdom. She heard the wizened dwarf's words clattering in her ears, bouncing off of each other, at first making no sense but then making more sense than they had when she first spied the witch speaking to Lem and Tom and then Lord Beric and Thoros; hearing, too, what Jaqen had been told and had related to his apprentice only moments before.

_I dreamt of a roaring river and a woman that was a fish. Dead she drifted, with red tears on her cheeks, but when her eyes did open…_

_If it's the mother you want, seek her at the Twins. For there's to be a wedding._

_She was not buried, aye, but walks still. Catelyn Stark is no more—you seek Lady Stoneheart._

What would her mother be like, now? And did she know that Arya was even alive? Had she reunited with Sansa? Where was she? And what did the ghost mean by saying her mother was an unnatural thing, cloaked in grey? How had this dark miracle come to pass? There was a precedent for resurrecting those who had been killed; she had seen Thoros, the red priest of Myr, perform just such a feat when the Hound killed Lord Beric during his trial by combat, but who had saved her mother?

The little voice she sometimes heard in a far corner of her mind, quiet but insistent, spoke once again, telling her, "_She's your mother. You have to go to her."_

She pushed the thought away. She couldn't decide that now. They had been too long separated, and there were other matters to consider. Her training and her future among the Faceless Men, for one. Could she sacrifice all that to run to Westeros in search of her mother? A mother who was an _unnatural creature? _There were so many unanswered questions and many things she had to sort through. There were too many mysteries that needed solving to just pick this _one_ and abandon all for it alone, on a whim.

"_But she's your mother_," the voice persisted.

"She's my mother," the girl repeated in a whisper, not even realizing she had spoken aloud.

Her master, who had been leaning against the wall in one corner of the room watching her closely, nodded his agreement but furrowed his brow at her words.

"Yes, lovely girl, she is your mother. And also, not your mother."

The girl looked at him with wide, slate eyes, considering his words, then rose to pace as he had earlier. One arm she pressed against her side, forearm crossing her belly with her fist pushing firmly into her gut as if holding herself together. With the other hand, she gripped her neck in a gesture that usually indicated a difficulty of breathing or some significant distress. She moved noiselessly back and forth across the room and soon began to mutter, the fingers at her neck kneading her own skin unconsciously.

"I saw Lord Beric. He was still… the same," she uttered in a bare whisper, urgency coloring her words. "He was no _creature_. He was alright. Thoros brought him back, over and over, and _he_ was alright. He was still kind and... just. He was still _good_."

Her mentor left his place in the corner and approached her slowly, intercepting her as she turned to pace once again across the floor. He gripped her shoulders and she dropped her arms and looked up at him, caught between a feeling of helplessness and a pull toward action. She wanted to _do_, but felt there was nothing she _could _do. Her eyes sent a silent plea to her master, asking for guidance.

"There is more," he murmured. "So much more."

"More?" she asked in disbelief. "Jaqen, you've told me that there are dragons in Dorne, plotting who knows what, and that you met with a woods witch who told you all sorts of… _awful _things about my mother and I assume the rest of those terrible observations were about _me_, and that my mother, who I have believed dead for _years,_ is actually alive. What more could there be?"

He moved his warm hands from her arms to her cheeks, trapping her face so that he could stare into her eyes and make her understand that there was more she needed to know.

"There is _so much more,_" he told her and his look was one of... _regret?_

She shut her eyes, blocking out his probing bronze gaze and felt his fingers slide over her jaw and down to her neck. His hands fit easily around its circumference and his thumbs came to rest in the hollow of her throat with a gentle pressure. She leaned into it and blew out one long breath.

"There is more _I _need to know?" she queried with a shaky sigh. Her master nodded his confirmation, pulling his hands from her throat, causing her to feel a sudden chill as she lost his warmth. He turned toward the small table and poured her another cup of wine, then pressed it into her hands. She smiled wanly and took a sip as he suggested she sit. Her pacing had brought her nearest to the bed, so she drifted down and sat upon the edge of the soft mattress as her master had done earlier. He grabbed one of the chairs and pulled it closer to her so that he could sit facing her while he continued his story. As he took his seat, their knees nearly touched. She took another sip of her wine and then looked at him expectantly.

"A man left High Heart for Oldstones," he began again.

"Why Oldstones?"

"The ghost had told a man that Lady Stoneheart and her band had been there recently. A man hoped to discover them and speak with the lady."

"Her _band?_" the girl asked, confused. _Her mother had a band?_

"Well, a brotherhood, if you prefer."

"_The Brotherhood without Banners?_" she cried, hardly believing it could be true. Everything crashed into place all at once. The Brotherhood must have found her mother! Perhaps they were nearby when she was murdered and tossed into the river. They must have seen and saved her, pulling her from the water and delivering her to Thoros! Thoros himself might have even been the one to rescue her from the water. Arya had seen the power at his command. It all made sense now! Thoros had called upon his Red god and had been given an answer in the form of her mother rising. Just like Lord Beric, her mother was gifted with a renewal of life because she had been a noble woman and had a just purpose... _a__nd_ a Red priest nearby. And _of course_ her mother had joined them. With Robb dead, she would want to do whatever she could to avenge him and to serve the god that had given her life once again. Her mother had always been so wise, she surely served as an advisor, providing counsel for Lord Beric and his men!

"Yes, lovely girl, that is what they called themselves," he answered calmly, not seeming to understand her frenzy.

"But Jaqen, the _Brotherhood…_ Those were Lord Beric's men!"

Though she had not discussed her time with the Brotherhood in any detail with her master, he was aware that after she parted with him outside of Harrenhal and before she managed to find a Braavosi captain to ferry her across the sea to the House of Black and White, she had spent some time as Lord Beric's hostage.

"There was no Lord Beric among them," he replied doubtfully. "Though many of them did seem to know a highborn girl named Arya Stark."

"But this is wonderful!" she exclaimed, nearly spilling her wine in her excitement. "The Brotherhood without Banners had among them a Red priest, very gifted. I saw him bring Lord Beric back from a wound that ought to have ended him... that _did _end him. And it wasn't the first time, either! If Thoros resurrected my mother, then…"

He shook his head, stopping her excited rambling.

"What is it?" she demanded.

"A man named Thoros was among this band but he did _not_ resurrect a girl's mother."

"I don't understand," she said flatly. "The ghost said my mother still walked."

"And so she does, yes," her master agreed, "but it is not by any work of the Red priest, at least not directly. There was talk of a knight who kissed your mother's corpse at the beseeching of a Northman, passing his unnatural life to her. This knight must be your Lord Beric."

"Passing his life to her? Do you mean that Lord Beric is gone?"

"Just so."

She mulled that over for a moment, but did not spare much time in sadness for Dondarrion. He had been given more life than was his due and he had taken her as a hostage, no matter how well treated she was during her time with his men.

"So, you saw my mother. And the Brotherhood? You found them at Oldstones?"

"A man ran across a small pocket of their band and explained his quest. They were kind enough to take a man to their lady who now leads in your Lord Beric's stead."

"My mother is the _leader_ of the _Brotherhood?"_

He nodded and continued his account, relaying how he went seeking the brotherhood and their lady, and finally met a small band of them roaming the countryside near Oldstones. He explained that he had business with Stoneheart but would not say what it was. Naturally, they were suspicious—having many enemies who would love to kill their leader and disband the troublesome brotherhood. He allowed them to take him. They disarmed him and placed a thick hood over his head as they led him to a cave where the lady judged her captives.

_"She almost never lets anyone live," a big man the others called Lem said, "but don't be nervous. You look a decent fellow. You might have a chance."_

_The Faceless Man said nothing. He felt nothing but the anticipation of completing this particular part of his mission. There was no fear. There was no doubt in him, although, if he allowed himself to admit it, there might have been a touch of curiosity; curiosity to see a girl's mother, such as she was. For as open as his apprentice could sometimes be with him, her mentor and master, there were still parts of her she did not allow him to know and parts he had been unable to reach. She had buried those parts deep within herself. He was unsure if she meant to hide them from the Faceless Men so that they could not be bled out of her (a problem, really, since she could not be herself and be no one at the same time), or if she meant to hide them from herself, too afraid or too hurt to acknowledge their existence. There were parts of her life that were lost to her, whose absence caused a pain she still felt so deeply; her brothers, her sister, her parents, her wolf, and an entire life that started out to be one thing and then become something else entirely._

_He was led through a narrow passage with the hood still in place. Suddenly, he sensed that he had entered an open space and that he shared it with several others. Despite the hood already effectively blinding him, he closed his eyes in order to concentrate; to feel the room with every nerve, engaging all of his senses available to him. Five… no, six men. And a lady standing at their head, facing him. He slowly breathed in and out, feeling the naked steel around him; smelling it; hearing it. They feared him, then. Good._

_The hood was removed and he remained standing as calm as still water, eyes closed, knowing that opening them would bring that intense burst of pain which comes with a sudden flash of light after prolonged darkness. When he felt himself adjusting through his lids, he opened them and glanced quickly around. He congratulated himself on his count, then stopped. Not six men and a woman. Five men and two women. There was the one cloaked in grey, whom he had been told to expect, and there was another; golden, with an uncommon build, that of a knight in truth, and she was arrayed as one as well. She boasted startling blue eyes, apparent even in the dim cave, which studied him suspiciously, a deep furrow forming between them. Her steel remained sheathed but her large hand rested upon her hilt, beneath a remarkable golden pommel, shaped like a lion's head with two glittering rubies for eyes. Next to her stood a man whose face he knew, though the hard, golden hand showing from beneath the sleeve of his chain mail was not familiar. How strange. In his left hand, he gripped his sword. His face was arranged in a boyishly careless expression but there was a menace apparent in the way he held his blade._

_On the other side of the golden haired woman stood the one who had led him in, the man called Lem. The rest were strangers to him though he knew the name of the cloaked lady who stood above him, perched upon a flat stone, a sort of pedestal, her face hidden in the shadows thrown by her hood and the torches that burned bright behind her._

_"Lady Stoneheart," he greeted with a courtly bow. "A man has been seeking you. We have much to discuss."_

_A bearded man with greasy, tangled hair brushing his shoulders, unarmed but for a dagger at his hip, approached the lady as she raised her hand to her throat, almost as if she were choking. Jaqen watched curiously as the lady rasped from beneath her hood and her attendant cocked his ear toward her, seeming to concentrate on the quiet scratching sounds she made. He then looked toward the newcomer and spoke._

_"Our Lady has a bit of trouble with her speech now," he explained, "Thanks to the tender care given her by Walder Frey and his gracious family. Those Freys, you gotta admire their loose interpretation of the sacred law of guest right, eh? You'll have to forgive me for this unusual arrangement. I translate for her. She says she doesn't know you and you don't look like a friend. Why shouldn't we string you up right now?"_

_"A man is no Frey, no Lannister, no Bolton. What dispute have you with an innocent traveler when you count a Lannister among your numbers?"_

_"A man is no Frey, aye, and no Westerosi either. What is a foreigner doing all the way in the Riverlands, seeking our Lady?" called Lem from Jaqen's right, his sword clutched dangerously in his hand. He was wearing a soiled yellow cloak so tattered that Jaqen found himself wondering why he bothered._

_"A man has said," the assassin replied coolly. "There is much to discuss with your lady."_

_"My Lady," spoke the other woman in the chamber, her tone clear and voice strong, "I don't trust him. He looks… dishonest."_

_There were several murmurs of agreement around the cave, echoing off the rock walls so that it sounded like a chorus of voices from a larger crowd. He allowed the sound to die down and then turned his attention back toward the shadowed face of the cloaked woman._

_"Lady Stoneheart, you will want to hear what a man has to say. It concerns your daughter."_

_There was a brief, intense silence, almost a collective intake of breath, then suddenly everyone was talking at once. There were clipped exclamations pouring forth, one atop the other, difficult to distinguish as each of the witnesses shouted different iterations of, "Lady Sansa" and "The Vale" and "we tried to find" and "he's lying, Littlefinger has" and so forth. After a minute of this, the lady raised her hand to quiet the group. The silence that fell was immediate and complete. She placed both of her hands tightly around her throat and forced the air up from her lungs, her raspy, faint voice difficult to understand but she was vehement in her desire to be heard._

_"What… do you… know… of my… daughter… Sansa?" she demanded._

_He drew in a deep breath and allowed it to escape before speaking. Gazing into the darkness of her hood, barely able to make out the outline of her pale face, he said, "My Lady, of your daughter Sansa, a man knows nothing…"_

_Before he could continue, the room was in an uproar with shouts of "I told you he's a liar" and "I said not to trust him" and "hang him now!" Each of the tattered knights nearly vibrated with frustration and anger and fear. All present in the chamber seemed beside themselves except for himself and the grey lady before him. They stood still as stones, facing one another, as the echoing din diminished around them. When silence descended upon them once more, the Lorathi spoke._

_"It is your daughter Arya a man has come to discuss." _

* * *

Jaqen paused in his telling, conscious of the girl's reaction to the news that he had told Lady Stoneheart that he wished to discuss her younger daughter. Arya swallowed hard, then slumped a little, pressing her hand to her mouth. He waited for her to say something so that he might know the cause of her distress. He imagined there was an excitement to knowing her mother was still out there and was now aware that her daughter was also, but a dread as well. A girl would be wondering about expectations, he supposed, now that she was no longer an anonymous creature of the House of Black and White.

"So, she knows about me then?" the girl asked quietly.

"Yes," he answered her simply.

"Was she… Did she…"

"Perhaps a man should tell more of his tale, and a girl will know how Lady Stoneheart and her band reacted to a man's revelation."

The Cat sat up straight and drained the remaining wine from her cup, then handed it to her master who placed the goblet on the table behind him before turning to face his apprentice. He focused his expressionless eyes on her face, waiting. She nodded her assent and he picked up where he had left off.

"The Lady remained still, seeming stunned," he described. "Her men were not so restrained. Many of them had known Arya Stark—a man did not realize his little Cat had wandered so far and wide in Westeros before coming to Braavos with his iron coin. They were shouting about a girl being kidnapped by a Hound and that she must have been raped and murdered by that monster. Others had heard tales of a girl stabbing some old enemies with her tiny skewer at some inn or another."

Here, her master watched her intently, searching for confirmation. She shrugged at him, leaving him to figure out the change in her prayer over time.

"Valar morghulis," she replied casually.

Her master smirked at her, feeling something akin to pride, then continued, "But though they all had different things to say about this Arya Stark, none of their accounts matched a man's. Then there was this most extraordinary story of Arya Stark marrying and residing in the ruins of Winterfell."

The girl's shock showed on her face.

"_What?_"

Jaqen recalled being a bit nonplussed himself initially when one of the knights mentioned the rumor about the youngest of the Stark girls and Ramsay Snow, now styled a _Bolton. _The tale was of a girl of an age with Arya who had the right build and the right coloring, with a requisite _Northerness_ about her, escorted by Lannister men to Winterfell and married off to Roose Bolton's mad son. The members of the Brotherhood were able to dispel the myth of her authenticity easily, since they knew Arya Stark had not remained in King's Landing and could not have been taken from there to Winterfell. But they could not accept the newcomer's words, either, unable to envision a plausible circumstance in which a girl of two and ten could have survived the terrors and perils of the wide world on her own. He considered all this as the girl awaited his elaboration, but opted instead to tell her an abbreviated version of the narrative.

"Yes, Arya Stark was escorted from King's Landing to Winterfell and married to the Bastard of Bolton."

"I thought you said there were things that were important for me to know! What sort of ridiculous story is this? Jaqen, we're not playing the lying game. You're just supposed to be telling me what happened!"

She looked irritated. He supposed he could not blame her. What he had related to her thus far was putting a strain on her composure and then to hear that she had been wedded and bedded, and supposedly to a man her father wouldn't have deigned to spit on, much less marry his precious daughter to, all while she was actually training to become an elite assassin must have been too much to tolerate.

"A man admits, he was hurt not to have received an invitation to the wedding…"

"_Jaqen!"_

She was quick but he was still quicker. He caught her left hook deftly between his palms and forced her hand back down into her lap.

"A man will have a hard time finishing his story if a girl knocks out his teeth. Patience, fierce little Cat. Draw in your claws and a man will explain himself."

She pulled her fist out of the trap of his hands and folded her arms across her chest, raising her eyebrows in a look of anticipation while glaring at him. When it seemed likely that she would restrain herself from trying to clout him again, he told her of the Brotherhood's reaction to his declaration that he had news of Arya Stark.

_The room was once again filled with the shouts of the Lady's followers, all insisting that one way or another, Arya Stark was dead. Everyone agreed that she had been alive right up until the time she was taken by the Hound but at some point after that, she had to have died. Either by the Hound's hand or by the hand of some vengeful survivor of the Hound's massacre at the inn where she was rumored to have also killed a man. The inn keep insisted he had seen the Hound and Arya leave together and the girl was alive and unharmed at that time, but after that, her trail had faded. There was not a man among the Brotherhood who believed a young girl could have survived on her own in the harsh world that was Westeros since the beginning of the war. If she had not died by some violent means, then she had been taken by a fever and breathed her last, now existing only as an anonymous pile of bones somewhere, picked over by wolves._

_"A girl did not die," Jaqen stated simply, artfully masking his disdain for their lack of faith in his remarkable apprentice. He had seen immediately the strength in her and the potential she possessed, even when she was still just a skinny child masquerading as a boy. These men had witnessed her leading two boys in their escape from Harrenhal on stolen horses and knew what she had endured and survived up to that point. How could they doubt her now?_

_"Well, what happened to her, then?" the man who had translated for Lady Stoneheart demanded, his voice clearly signally his disinclination to believe the stranger._

_"A man gave her an iron coin to buy passage to Braavos when she escaped Harrenhal. After she left the Hound, she used it. She has been training in the House of Black and White these two years past."_

_The looks on their faces ranged from confused to incredulous to outraged. Only the lady remained impassive._

_"Are you telling me," began the one-handed lion in a dubious tone, tinged with amusement, "that Arya Stark is training to become a… a _Faceless Man_?"_

_"Just so," Jaqen replied._

_"How do you know this?" the large woman to the lion's right asked._

_"Because I am her master."_

_Within the space of a breath, he was surrounded by their drawn swords. He made no move, did not flinch, and uttered not a sound._

_The large woman looked accusingly at the man in the tattered yellow cloak, her face twisted into a terrible expression of outrage as she fairly screamed, "Why would you bring a Faceless Man here?"_

_"Well, I wouldn't have if I had known he was a Faceless Man, would I!" he shouted back at her._

_The accusations and insults and excuses continued to fly around the group until the Lady stepped off of her pedestal and brushed past her men, entering the circle ringed in sharp steel. She walked towards the stranger, only stopping when she was so close, he could hear her rasping breath over the protests of the Brotherhood, beseeching her to step away, certain he had been sent to dispatch her. She ignored their pleas and shouts of warning and stared into the assassin's eyes as she slowly pushed the hood away from her face and off of her head, letting it finally drop to her shoulders and drape her back. The flaccid flesh of her cheeks was so white that her pale hair hanging against them was barely noticeable. The dark edges of the ragged wound of her neck moved slightly against each other as she wheezed out a faint command._

_"Come… with… me."_

* * *

"A man talked with the lady for a long time," Jaqen said to his apprentice. "First, she led a man from the cave to walk among the trees of the forest, adorned with countless swinging corpses, some old, some fresh. She meant to show a man that the threat made earlier to string him up was no idle talk. But after a time, she bade a man to tell what he knew of Arya Stark."

"What did you say to her?" the girl asked breathlessly, leaning forward, hands grasping her knees tightly. "What did you tell my mother?"

"Everything."

"I don't know what that means, Jaqen. What's _everything_?"

"Everything that a man knew of what had happened to Arya Stark, he told Lady Stoneheart. He told of how a girl became a boy and journeyed in the company of dangerous criminals with the Night's Watch and how she delivered a man from death though she did not have to. He told of how a girl became a servant to her enemies then a ghost terrorizing a castle and then planned a daring rescue of her brother's men using only weasel soup. He told how she became a page in the service of a leech lord and kept her secret still, from all but a man. He told of her brave escape from Harrenhal…"

"You told her _that_?" she interrupted, sounding anxious.

"A man only told that a girl escaped, he did not tell how."

She nodded, seeming grateful, and relaxed her posture, leaning away from him once more. This made him feel a strange mix of sympathy and amusement. Of course she did not want her mother to think her a cold-blooded killer, yet she was purposefully pursuing a life which would reduce her to nothing but the thing she seemed embarrassed to be just now. Additionally, the woman whose judgment she feared could herself be described in exactly the same way.

"The men of the Brotherhood were able to describe a girl's life from the time of her escape from the leech lord until she was taken by the Hound. A man learned things…"

Here, she had the good sense to blush. It wasn't that she wanted to keep secrets from her mentor, but she didn't like to think of those times so she didn't talk about it with _him_ so she wouldn't have to recall it _herself_. When she thought back to her capture by Lord Beric's men, she mostly just felt frustrated by her failure to accomplish _anything_ she had intended to. She refused to leave with Jaqen when he first offered despite her deep desire to join him because she was driven to accomplish things of great importance; tasks she felt were pressing enough for her to subvert her own wants. She needed to find her family. She needed to reunite her pack. That she had been unable to achieve a single one of her goals despite sacrificing her chance to join the assassin filled her with despair that was only compounded by the sting of abandonment by and disappointment in the people she had believed would stand by her: Hot Pie, Harwin, and Gendry.

"A man was able to solve the mystery of what became of Arya Stark after the Hound died. For this, a mother was most grateful."

He did not tell the girl what further he had discussed with the Grey Lady. Some things were important for a girl to know while other things were just as important for her _not_ to know, at least not yet. So the explanation he gave Lady Stoneheart for his visit and what he needed from her as well as the ensuing argument with the one-handed lion and the only female knight among the brotherhood, he kept to himself.

"What did you mean about me getting married, Jaqen?"

"A girl mistakes a man. The news he received from these knights was that _Arya Stark_ had been married, not a girl."

She gave him an exasperated look and awaited his explanation. Instead, she received his criticism.

"A girl is not lazy. Use your wits, foolish child. How could a girl be both married to Ramsay Bolton _and_ be an acolyte in the House of Black and White?"

She wrinkled her nose as if smelling something unpleasant but then cocked her head and looked off to the side. He watched as her eyes took on a far-away look and then her gaze drifted to rest on the floor. Slowly, her face relaxed, the wrinkles in her brow smoothing as her mouth opened into a small _o._ She straightened and then leaned toward her master, trying to read in his face the truth of what she had puzzled out.

"An imposter?" she mused. "But _who_?"

"The _who _is not so important," her mentor told her. "It's the _why_ that matters."

"The why is obvious," she retorted. "Without any living brothers and Sansa missing, possibly dead, an Arya Stark in Winterfell gives her husband all the stake he needs."

"Yes, lovely girl. Arya Stark is the key to the entire North."

And with the reports and rumors of what was occurring beyond the wall, the North was the key to Westeros.

* * *

The afternoon was waning and as the dusk settled over Braavos, there was a knock at the door. The Lorathi answered it to find the inn keep had sent a pot boy up to inquire after their supper plans. After exchanging a few words, Jaqen had arranged to have a meal brought to them and the pot boy ran off, promising to send their familiar tavern girl back with a tray and more wine. Turning around after bolting the door and leaning his back against it, he then eyed his apprentice sitting upright on the other side of the bed with her back to the door. The bed covers still were made up and relatively undisturbed.

"A wench will likely be more scandalized by the bed's unused appearance once again than she would be to find a captain and a widow unclothed, wrapped in blankets together," he observed. "Perhaps to keep appearances up…"

The Cat twisted slightly in her place and turned her head to give him a withering look, hissing, "How _can_ you jest right now?"

Her thoughts were tangled, her head heavy with wine and uncertainty. So much about her world had changed, all in an afternoon. She was slowly realizing that she would have to make decisions and then act on them. It was uncomfortable and a little daunting after so many years as an acolyte, sheltered in a way, instructed and directed, somewhat insulated from the possibilities of her own poor choices.

Her master left his position by the door and walked around the bed. He came to rest behind the chair in which he had sat to tell the latest part of his story. Grasping the chair's back and leaning down over it so that he could meet her eyes, he gave her a serious look and in that damnable throaty purr of his, he answered her rhetorical question with one of his own.

"Why must a man be jesting?"

She drew back only fractionally, eyes widening just a bit, and opened her mouth as if to gasp involuntarily, then drew upon her lessons and vowed not to let him unnerve her as was obviously his intention. Her face relaxed as she exhibited her typical sardonic air and then tilted her head while cocking an eyebrow at him.

"If you think it wise, master, then I trust your judgment," she drawled and then reclining seductively to the side, propping up on one elbow as her long braid fell and struck the bed, emphasized, "_completely._"

Jaqen's false face was as implacable as ever but his captain's brow creased a bit as his bronze eyes travelled down her face and neck, appraising her curves and lines. He studied her languid posture and then met her gaze once again, her eyes appearing almost a smoky grey beneath the dark fringe of her lashes. With a slight shake of his head, he stood up straight, releasing the chair back as he exhaled audibly and turned to grab her veil from the table behind him.

"A girl should guard her face until the wench leaves the tray," he said dismissively, tossing her the wispy cloth.

Her smirk was immediate but she bit her lip in an attempt to expel it, lest Jaqen see. She was certain that if she gloated, she would pay for it later, and her master was infinitely better at these games than she.

But she was learning.


	19. Chapter 19

The widow was arranging her veil atop her dark hair while her master took a seat in the chair furthest from the bed. He poured the last of the Pentoshi Amber into the as yet unused goblet, the companion to her own, and took a long swallow. Beneath her rearranged shroud, the widow allowed herself a small smile. The Lorathi did not indulge in spirits except with meals, so she assumed she must have managed to disturb his peace a bit if he was driven to retreat from her and drink. Well, good. He had certainly tormented her enough times that he deserved his own little comeuppance. Some of her delight in his assumed discomfort was probably fueled by the wine he had insisted she drink. She was unaccustomed to more than watered wine with her dinner and even that typically made her feel sleepy. The effects of her two goblets of Pentoshi Amber made her feel slightly light-headed and unaccountably saucy. And she also found herself enamored with the _power_ she felt when she saw that her own efforts at playing at seduction had affected her master. She had never understood women who used their beauty and sensuality to manipulate and control the men in their world. To her, it indicated weakness and seemed distasteful. Better to best a man with your own wits or a sword or some other show of strength and force him to yield rather than give sultry gazes through fluttering eyelashes and use suggestive double-speak to win his favor or direct his actions. But after what she had just seen, she wasn't so sure anymore. A pose, a look, a few words that might be taken one way or another, and an attacker retreated. It certainly warranted further exploration.

"As a tactic," she thought. Flirtation certainly _seemed_ to have a practical function.

The Cat stood to stretch but felt a slight light-headedness when she did and so sat back down immediately, placing a hand on her temple to get her bearings. Her display was not missed by her master, who advised her to be careful.

"A man fears a wanton widow will forget her courtesies if she gets too deep in her cups and may throw herself at a lonely ship's captain. A man out to sea for months would be hard pressed to resist such a lovely lady's charms."

She rolled her eyes and answered him with a most unladylike snort.

"I hardly think being slightly dizzy is a sign that I'm ready to throw all caution to the wind and bed down with a salty old mariner," she laughed as if the idea were the most ridiculous thing she could contemplate. "Especially one with a forked beard!"

"Even if a salty old mariner has _bronze_ eyes?" he teased.

She felt a slight blush move across her cheek in a warm wave and was thankful for the veil. She huffed a little, cursing her stupid mouth for ever uttering the word _bronze_ in her master's presence but attempted to deflect her discomfort onto him.

"_You_ were the one who poured the wine. Maybe _you_ should be careful, or a blameless widow might begin to suspect that her gallant captain is actually a wretch trying to get her drunk for _sinister purposes_."

"A captain has no use for a woman giddy with wine," he assured her, arranging his weathered seaman's face into an imperious expression. His smug manner irritated her and her own drunkenness emboldened her. Remembering the feeling of power she had only just been contemplating, she impulsively decided to test her skills at flirtation and playfully beguile her master. She shook off Umma's voice that suddenly popped into her head, …_when you flirt with a certain Lorathi…,_ and tried very hard to call up her inner seductress. She became concerned when it seemed she had no inner seductress, but the wine quickly dismissed that concern and she persisted in carrying her plan out anyway.

"Oh, really?" she queried coyly in a voice that mimicked her master's Lorathi purr almost perfectly as she rose easily in an unhurried way from the bed and drifted slowly toward him. "A _captain_ may have no use for a woman giddy with wine, but perhaps _a man_ might."

As she breathed the last few words, she placed her hands on each side of him, delicately gripping the arms of his chair, trapping him in his seat. She bent at the waist so that her veiled eyes were even with his own, her nose only a short two inches from his. His cup was frozen in the air at the level of his chest, clutched in his hand whose arrested ascent to his lips had occurred as she approached him. His face remained immobile as his molten eyes pierced her veil and held her gaze for a long moment. He then leaned slowly forward until his nose nearly brushed hers and inhaled and then exhaled slowly, his warm breath caressing her face.

"A man has said once today already that a girl plays a dangerous game," he replied, the timbre of his voice low and only just audible to her ear.

A mischievous smile curved her lips slightly at their corners as she crinkled her eyes but she fought to keep her voice very serious when she parroted a version of his own words back to him, saying in a breathy whisper, "Why must it be a game?"

Jaqen's eyes narrowed slightly as he considered her words, her tone, and her very _closeness_. After a slight pause, he tilted his face and leaned even closer, his nose now brushing along the side of hers and grazing her cheek through the gauzy veil, pressing the thin material to her skin. His lips were so close to hers that they nearly touched. She dared not move, unsure which direction she should shift, anyway; a fraction backward to release herself from his hypnotic touch or a fraction forward to complete the kiss that seemed just on the verge of occurring? Despite her adamant inward command that it be still, her heart beat frantically within her chest and she felt its pounding in her ears. Jaqen's nose tickled her flesh and she had to fight her overwhelming urge to shiver. She felt his lips part slightly and closed her eyes with anticipation then heard him say in the faintest of whispers, "A man has always said that a girl has more courage than sense."

Whether he meant to pull away from her and leave his words as a humiliating rebuke or to lean in further, closing that spare breath of space between them, making his words a prelude to a kiss, she would never know. A knock at the door interrupted their dalliance. Their supper had arrived.

Hearing the sharp rap at the door, the Cat straightened immediately, feeling her dizziness acutely as she did. She used the chair nearest the bed to stabilize herself, gripping its back, as Jaqen rose from his seat, smirked at her unsteadiness, and answered the door. She pulled the chair she used for support back toward the table so that she might sit in it to sup. As the tavern wench and the little pot boy placed their food on the small table, the widow sat down and inspected what had been brought for them. Roasted goat with a savory white leek sauce, charred onions and pears sprinkled with crumbles of goat cheese, and another loaf of warm bread and honey along with wine that appeared to be one of the sweet reds from the Reach.

The Cat allowed the scent of the food to fill her nostrils and pulled her chair in closer to the table. She sat primly in her seat, head slightly bowed, as the tavern girl set a small, empty platter before the widow and one directly opposite her where she assumed the captain would sit. As the rosy-cheeked serving girl filled their plates with a generous portion of each of the dishes, the widow maintained her shy demeanor, not speaking, keeping her hands folded in her lap. Her demure posture and actions belied the teasingly lustful display she had only just exhibited for her master.

The servants withdrew after Jaqen pressed more coin in their hands and whispered something into the wench's ear. She was definitely less giddy and effervescent after a full day's work in the tavern, but she was no less buxom or overtly flirtatious. The Cat scowled from beneath her veil at the way the prettily plump girl blushed at her master's whispered words. She found herself wondering if Jaqen had been _savoring _those full, pink lips. The thought upset her and this made her scowl even more because she couldn't quite understand why it should. There was a feeling gnawing at her gut that she might have named jealousy if she hadn't simply started stuffing it down without further exploration, as was her habit. Without turning to look at her, her mentor sensed her peevishness and spoke.

"Why does a widow scowl so?"

A dozen thoughts and accusations and half-formed feelings tossed about inside of her skull. _You're my master, not hers. Goat is on the menu, not pretty tavern wench. Why do I want to vomit when I see you whisper in her ear? How can you be thinking of anything else right now when so much is at stake? Dragons are in Dorne and my mother is alive but instead of formulating a plan, you're making pretty girls blush. You're wasting time on stupid things when you should be telling me the rest of your tale. You seem awfully familiar with that wench. You've probably been kissing _her _but you came so close and yet _didn't _kiss me._

Here, she startled herself with her own thought and gave a nervous laugh. Her master eyed her sharply and she grasped desperately at her querulous thoughts and yanked one out to cover over that last before Jaqen somehow magically read it on her face. _Bloody faceless Lorathi!_

"You looked like you were more hungry for tavern wench than goat," she grumbled with more bitterness in her voice than she had intended to show. "That bed is not big enough for the three of us. Do you wish me to leave?"

He appraised the mattress casually as if truly considering the dimensions of the large bed and then retorted, "No, it seems adequate and a widow is really quite small. A man sees no reason for you to depart."

She removed her veil and took a bite of the tender goat as her mentor took his seat at the table. Though her expression remained stoic, her irritation was made apparent by the aggressive way she ground the meat between her teeth, her jaw muscles clenching and unclenching with her effort to restrain her desire to unleash the tirade bubbling up in her throat. Swallowing down both her harsh words and her supper, she reminded Jaqen that he had yet to finish recounting his travels to her.

"Just so," he agreed. "What does a capricious widow wish to know?"

She bit her lip and felt the temporary courage given her by the Pentoshi Amber slipping away as the food settled in her stomach. Suddenly less _saucy_, she wondered if she should be concerned that her master thought her _capricious_. As if sensing her conflict, the captain filled her goblet with the sweet red wine provided for their supper and pushed it toward her. She took a small sip and then posed a question.

"When you were in the Riverlands, did you have to kill anyone?"

There was a small tingle of fear in her chest that she tried to ignore as she awaited his answer. When he initially related his meeting with the Brotherhood without Banners, she had been so taken aback by the revelation that her mother lived still that she hadn't stopped to consider that though her master found her and her compatriots alive, he might not have left them that way. His mother was part of his mission, he had said, and her knights certainly seemed to fear his purpose there. _Could someone have prayed for her mother's death?_

"No one who did not need killing," he replied after he swallowed his mouthful of pears and goat cheese.

_Bloody hells, what did _that_ mean?_

Her worry was displayed plainly upon her brow and her master leaned slightly forward, his bronze eyes soft as he sought to give her some peace.

"A man did no harm to Lady Stoneheart. She walked still as a man rode northward."

She relaxed back into her chair and blew out the breath that she had not realized she was holding. She gave him a weak smile, grateful for the relief her mentor's words had brought her.

"So, your stay with the Brotherhood was short?"

"A man said no such thing," he replied. "The Brotherhood had a collective wisdom about the happenings in a girl's homeland. Staying with them and riding with them for a time allowed a man to learn all that they knew."

Swallowing another gulp of her sweet wine, enjoying the warmth she felt as it trailed down her throat, she laughed and demanded he tell her _three new things._

"A girl must be careful," he chided. "The principle elder is not mocked."

"I'm not _mocking_ him!" she gasped as if insulted. "I'm _emulating_ him! I'm told that's a sincere form of flattery. Shouldn't we all strive to be more like the Kindly Man?"

The look on his face suggested that perhaps that goal was… _ill-advised?_

Another swallow of wine and then a declaration of, "I'll have my three things, Jaqen! What did a Dornish-Lorathi faceless-assassin-brother-without-a-banner learn during his time riding alongside Lem Lemoncloak and Tom o' Sevens?" and her master shrugged and obliged her.

"He learned that a girl rode better than any man among their band save one Northman who exceeded her in years of experience with Northern horses."

"A useless tidbit!" she cried. "Any man with sense could puzzle that out with no input from others if he knew the girl in question grew up in the Northern household of a great lord. What else?"

"He learned that a merciless lady has nearly rid the land of any Frey bold enough to venture beyond the walls of the Twins."

A rapturous look that could only be borne of the satisfaction one derives from meting out righteous vengeance lit up her face. In that moment, Jaqen felt the depths of her hatred for her enemies and the love she bore her family. It survived still, even after her long absence from Westeros; after all the heartbreak she had endured; after her own years of training under the tutelage of the brothers of the House of Black and White, which had been meant to strip those things from her forever. In that moment, he witnessed the parts of her she kept hidden deep inside and it fairly robbed him of his breath. In that moment, she was no lovely girl; she was a creature of unparalleled magnificence. Her beauty had become ethereal in his eyes.

They continued to stare at each other, his bronze gaze full of wonder as he memorized her as she existed in that moment while hers radiated the simple joy of knowing a devout, long-whispered prayer had been finally answered. She then prompted him to speak with four words.

"And the third thing?"

"A man learned that a young bastard knight of noble stock now trains the orphans of the land that find their way to him so that they may join the Brotherhood and continue carrying out Lady Stoneheart's revenge."

His words called something to mind. _A young bastard knight… of noble stock…_

_"Gendry?"_

"Ser Gendry, now, he is styled," her master answered, studying her reaction to his news. "The bastard of Baratheon. Well, one of them."

"_Ser_ Gendry," she thought with a bitter inward laugh as she gulped down two huge swallows of the delicious wine. "_I ought to punch him in his stupid, knightly face_."

"A girl knew this knight, yes?"

"He was no knight then," she growled.

Her master seemed to mislike her tone. He clenched the stem of his goblet tighter and leaned toward her, asking, "Did this _Gendry_ hurt a girl?"

There seemed to be a threat in his tone and the wine was impeding her ability to interpret it easily. It suddenly dawned on her that her master might be asking if she was implying that the obstinate bull had… _violated_ her. She snorted, thinking how she always believed Gendry considered her as he considered Hot Pie—just another one of the boys. Besides, if he had ever tried to lay a wrong finger on her, she would have cut that finger off and then gutted him like a fish. But still, there was a comfort in knowing that Jaqen cared and seemed inclined to protect her. She felt the same warm contentment settle over her that she had experienced when he had held her in his arms after she realized that the ghost of High Heart knew her mother would be slain under Walder Frey's roof.

"Yes, he _hurt_ a girl, but not how _you_ mean," she answered him sourly, not elaborating.

This seemed to satisfy him and he released his cup and continued eating. The food really was quite tasty. They chewed and swallowed in silence for a few minutes as Arya recalled Gendry and Hot Pie and their wild flight from Harrenhal; their arguments and conversations; their foraging and hunger and childish hopes as they desperately sought a path to Riverrun; a route to safety and comfort. Thinking of it all made her sad, though, so she sought to distract herself.

"What else did you learn while among the Brotherhood?" she asked her mentor as she reached for the warm bread loaf and tore off a generous portion. She picked off a smaller piece of her bread and began dabbing at the delectable sauce that pooled around her goat. She felt an urge to just lean down and lick the stuff directly off her platter, but astutely recognized that the desire was probably just the wine talking and wisely used her bread for the task instead.

Jaqen took another sip of his wine and allowed it to settle in his stomach before answering her. He seemed almost reluctant to resume his tale and this made his apprentice nervous.

"What is it?" she impelled him softly.

"Perhaps a girl should finish her meal first."

She mulled over his advice but then sighed and admitted that she did not think she could eat while worried that he had something awful to tell her.

"You might as well just say it, Jaqen."

He nodded, acquiescing to her urging and then took another bite of his meat, lifting the forkful to his mouth as the Cat watched a few drops of the leek sauce drip from the roasted goat and land on his platter. He chewed slowly and then washed down the food with another gulp of wine before he told her the thing that they had both been dreading.

"A man heard tell of a girl's bastard brother, Lord Snow, betrayed by his own men and slaughtered at the Wall."

She stood so quickly that she knocked her goblet over, spilling what was left of her wine across the table. The cup rolled off the edge and then struck the floor, its metal bowl and stem clattering onto the wooden boards and then skittering until it came to rest against the near wall. Her slender fingers grasped the edge of the table, turning her knuckles white. She searched her master's false face for the indication she _knew_ must be there—that this was a tasteless jest, or else a complete misunderstanding. Yes, that _must _be it. The wine was wreaking havoc on her wits and she had merely misheard him. He must have actually said her brother, her sweet Jon, the hero of her girlhood, was _beloved_ by his own men, and _safeguarded_ at the Wall. But her mentor continued to regard her with that _look_, that detestable _pity, _and she felt the bile in her throat as panic rose up within her and threatened to sweep her away into hysteria.

"_Jaqen,_" she pled in a frayed whimper. He remained still, watching her with that maddening _sympathy_ that told her she had not mistaken his words, and for a unreasoning instant, she hated him for it.

Arya stumbled backwards, turning to hide the anguish that poured forth in the hot tears she had begun to believe she was no longer capable of summoning. She collapsed to the floor, rocking on her knees which had buckled beneath her, feeling the rough wooden planks against her palms as she bowed her forehead to touch them, assuming the posture of a supplicant beseeching her god for succor, certain that her heart was freezing within her chest, so painful did it feel just then.

"_Stupid, stupid girl! Did you think Jon was safe? That he would remain untouched at the Wall? Did you think that just because he was important to you and you loved him that he would be protected from all the evils of the world?" _that hushed, hateful little voice berated her from the far corner of her mind.

And in truth, she _had_ thought it. Gods preserve her, she _had._ She never spared a worry for Jon; brave Jon, _safe_ at the Wall, surrounded by a thousand men with swords, all under his own wise command. She spent her worries on other things; things less sure. Jon was tucked safely away in that small pocket of her cares which she felt so confident were inviolable, impervious to harm. What a fool she was! What a great, imbecilic, naïve fool!

She had not realized she was still capable of the depths of grief she now felt. Her ability to experience such suffocating and bottomless suffering had died when she had been unable to save her father, paralyzed as she was at Baelor's feet, Needle uselessly gripped in her trembling, grimy little hand. Or so she had thought. Yet here was an anguish so enveloping, she could hardly bear it; an admonition for her hubris at believing herself beyond its reach.

Her master was frozen in place, breathing deeply to dispel his own misery at her despair; a despair he had wrought. He closed his eyes and pressed the heels of his hands hard against his eyes, forcing the image of a lovely girl's sorrow from his vision. The rising sound of her ragged sobbing snapped the invisible cords holding him in his chair and he rose with determination, meaning to right his offense and quiet a girl's mournful keening.

The girl squeezed her eyes shut tightly, trying to stem the flow of her tears as she felt her master lift her from the floor. He cradled her in his arms as one might cradle a weeping child and she tried to be indignant about it but couldn't muster the strength from under the weight of her utter desolation. She had only _thought_ her whole world had been changed in an afternoon. Now, the seams of her reality completely unraveled, she knew it without a doubt. She would never be the same.

Arya opened her eyes as her master laid her gently on the bed, pillows under her head, and her vision was blurry through her tears. She wanted to hear more, to hear it all, but also wanted to hear him say it was not true and that he had discovered the lie with further questioning of her mother's men. She wanted this to be a dream; a nightmare from which she would suddenly wake, shaking off the terror she felt with a laugh as she realized its baselessness. She wanted the crushing sensation in her chest to go away, whatever the price for it. She wanted _Jon_.

She realized then how much she had been counting on her brother; how she must have always planned to go to him someday. She had never articulated her own desire to herself or anyone else, but there it was. In six months or a year or twenty years or when they were both stooped and grey and aching with rheumatism, she wasn't sure, but she had always understood that she would reunite with Jon Snow. She had _known_ that she would see him again; known it in her very bones even as the knowledge was hidden from her conscious mind. And in her bones, she felt it still, as surely as she felt Jaqen's thumb softly brushing the steadily trekking tears from her cheek.

_This wasn't right_. Something deep inside her rebelled and her tears slowed and then stopped. She didn't know how, but she could _feel_ that it wasn't right. She needed her mentor to tell her more. It took her a long while to regain enough control over her voice to ask him for what she needed, though. During the wordless lull, Jaqen continued stroking her face, soothing the burning flesh made raw by the overabundance of tears she had cried. Her cheeks were unaccustomed to such an insult as she had not wept with that sort of abandon in years. Or, actually, _ever_.

After drawing in several hitching breaths and sniffling like a stupid little girl, she was able to regain her voice enough to ask him to tell her more. To tell her _all_. Her master looked at her doubtfully and seemed about to suggest she rest and regain her composure before he say anything further. He seemed… _afraid_, somehow. And he was—afraid to say a thing which might reduce her once again to inconsolable lamentation as he uselessly looked on. She saw it laid plain in his eyes and she clutched at his wrist and pressed his hand to her hot cheek.

"_Please_, Jaqen," she begged, closing her eyes, feeling his touch as she released his wrist and slid her palm over his hand, trapping it; holding it there against her face. "I need to know."

The fear in his eyes softened into a look of reluctant capitulation. He leaned over her, sighing, and brushed his lips against her forehead, murmuring, "Did a man not say that with such a look, a girl could own most men, _and_ their secrets?"

His apprentice smiled sadly at his gentle teasing as he pulled his face away from hers, not hearing the sincere powerlessness behind his words. He was the master and _she_ the acolyte, yet he was helpless against her tears and her pleading, driven to obey her wishes even though his own better judgment urged him to spare her, at least temporarily, from the knowledge she desired. When he thought back over their life together, he remembered suddenly when he met his _evil child_ and he began to realize that she had always possessed this power; the ability to bend him to her will, if only her want of his obedience was deep enough. Was this another of her unique gifts from the old gods or some mark of his own failings?

He pulled his hand from beneath hers, abandoning the warmth of her cheek in an attempt to regain his authority. He found his concentration inadequate to both quell the chaos of his thoughts and maintain his false face. He must sacrifice one to preserve the other. The captain placed his hand across his forehead and eyes, giving the appearance of a man who had just received distressing news, then pulled his fingers down over the weathered skin and grizzled beard, erasing the Pentoshi features and returning the flesh to its original Lorathi countenance.

The girl questioned his action with her eyes but he did not answer the question and she did not voice it. He rose from her side and returned to the table for his cup. She made to sit up and follow him but he lifted his hand in a gesture meant to stay her movements as he drank deeply of the sweet red. She obeyed him, for once, and did not leave her place, but instead arranged the soft pillows in a high stack, dropping back against them in a more upright position than she had previously had. Having drained his goblet, her master returned it to the table and walked back to the bed, settling himself on its edge, his back to the girl laid out atop it in her widow's garb.

"A man knows his lovely girl wishes his news of her brother was untrue," he began, addressing his words toward the wall beyond the table, "but it was received from a most reliable source. There was a witness to this thing among the men of the Brotherhood."

"Who?" she asked simply, her voice still shaky from the effects of her uncontrolled sobbing.

"A black brother who escaped the wall during the murder."

"A _deserter_ from the Night's Watch? You trusted the word of an oathbreaker?"

"This _oathbreaker_ counted your brother as his most trusted mentor. He felt that to leave the crows who had killed his Lord Commander was not oathbreaking, but oath_keepng_. He intended to rally support from one crown or another to punish the turncloaks and restore order to the brotherhood of the Night's Watch."

"So why then was he found among a _different_ brotherhood rather than at the Wall, overseeing the punishment of Jon's murderers?" she demanded.

"He did not find the help he sought from any king but secured the promise of the Brotherhood without Banners that this injustice would be avenged."

This surprised her. Catelyn Stark had been as indifferent to Arya's half-brother as Arya was attached to him. Indifferent, and even _resentful_. Her mother had never treated Jon as anything other than an interloper and a threat to the Starks. Why would she agree to lift a finger for his sake _now_, when it could make no difference anyway?

"Brilliant. Another riddle for which I have no answer," she muttered, causing Jaqen to shift his position, turning so that he could look at her, trying to understand her meaning. Seeing his face flustered her, so habituated had she become to hearing his dire words pour forth from the captain's mouth. She shook her head slightly to indicate that he should ignore her pronouncement; that it was of no consequence to his own telling of the story. She bade him continue. Of course, he obliged her.

"There was some disagreement among the brothers of the Night's Watch about the ever increasing numbers of wildings south of the Wall and how their Lord Commander planned to utilize them in defense of the realm. Also, a problem with Arya Stark's husband occupying Winterfell and demanding that _his_ Arya, who had disappeared, be returned to him. Your brother planned a march on Winterfell to make Bolton's bastard answer for his insult, and possibly rescue his little sister and a wilding king, but he never got the chance."

The Lorathi related to the Cat how some of her brother's most trusted men had stabbed him and watched him bleed upon the snows outside of Hardin's Tower at Castle Black. He described how the Lord Commander's loyal squire, a boy with the unlikely name of _Satin_, had tried in vain to stop the rogue clan of traitorous brothers from murdering Lord Snow but was too late and far too outnumbered to do more than grab whatever provisions he found en route to the stables, saddle a horse and ride for his own life, intent on spreading the news of the mutiny to anyone who could help him set it right. Unable to find King Stannis, the boy rode further and further south, intending to ride all the way to the capital and into the throne room, right up to the iron throne if he had to, demanding justice for his slain commander. Somewhere south of Greywater Watch, Satin had been intercepted by one of the continually roving bands of Lady Stoneheart's men and hearing his tale, they brought him to their mistress. Thoros had searched for the truth of the boy's words in his fires and had seen that his account was accurate, but also something else.

Here, her master paused, and the girl felt her skin prickle with anticipation.

"What?" she pressed. "What did Thoros see?"

"A man does not wish for a girl to excite herself," he started cautiously. She sighed, making her impatience an audible thing and gave him a condescending look.

"I'm no pampered maiden, blushing and giggling whenever a handsome knight deigns to smile at me or fainting at the slightest hint of unpleasant news. You can _tell_ me, Jaqen. Don't you know me _at all_?"

"A man _thought_ he knew his apprentice," he retorted. "But this weeping, fragile woman, he is _not_ acquainted with."

Her cheeks burned with shame. She turned away from him, trying to curse her weakness, but unable to truly repent the grief she experienced for Jon. Her sorrow was pure and compelling and undeniable. Still, she wished her master had not witnessed her collapse even as she coveted his comfort.

"A man's only wish is that a girl is not hurt any further," he told her gently.

"Jaqen, despite how it seems, I _am_ strong," she assured him, looking at the bolted door rather than his face. "And I will not weep again."

"It is not a girl's tears a man fears. It is raising in her false hope that he wishes to avoid."

The girl turned to face her master once more and then sat up, placing her hand lightly upon his shoulder. He turned his head down, tracing the contour of her fingers with his eyes, feeling her touch through the leather of his jerkin. He inclined his head further and brushed his chin against her wrist, back and forth, scratching her with the rough stubble of his unshaven face. It was a tender gesture of affection and comfort that spoke of their familiarity. He had warned her against _false hope_ and she promised herself she would guard against it, but still she heard _hope_ and she craved it even though she knew she should not.

"It's alright," she whispered, her hand at his shoulder increasing the strength of her grasp infinitesimally. He read the tiny gesture and knew her mounting tension.

"Thoros saw that the squire had the right of it; that a girl's brother was murdered as he had described," her mentor submitted, "but he also saw that the boy still walked, a great white wolf at his side, and that a fire burned bright within his heart, as hot and fierce as dragon's breath."

The Cat snatched her hand from her master's shoulder and slapped it over her own mouth, drawing her breath in sharply and feeling the ice around her heart melt in an instant, soaring joy fighting to burst forth from within her.

"He survived the attack!" she cried through her fingers.

"Or was resurrected," Jaqen proposed. "But a girl cannot know this truly. What the Red priests see in their flames… It is no certain thing. Often, mistakes are made."

"But _Jaqen_," she started, ignoring her mentor's caution against false hope, "I _know_ Thoros. I've seen his power. This… this is _real_." _I feel it_, she did not say. _I know it to be true._

"A man rode north," he told her. "He was unable to find evidence of the Red priest's visions. A man is sorry, lovely girl."

She accepted his condolence, even as she smiled inwardly, knowing the truth. _Her brother was alive, and so was Ghost._

She would have her reunion after all.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: This chapter was originally _much_ longer. It grew so long, in fact, that I decided to divide it into two more reasonable chapters. The bad news is that this _one_ day in the life of Arya is now officially longer than The Long Winter, starting as it did in the middle of chapter 14 and lasting through _at least_ the next chapter (although technically, at some point in these chapters, the clock strikes midnight somewhere in Braavos and it officially becomes the _next_ day in Arya's life). The good news is that the next chapter will be up much quicker, since it's already mostly written. **

**Thanks to everyone for reading and reviewing. I do answer all my reviews when I am allowed, but some I cannot due to user settings or guest status. So, I just wanted to let everyone know that I do appreciate that you are choosing to read my veeerrrry wordy work and taking the time to leave me comments!**

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The Cat seemed remarkably poised, considering her wine intake and all the news she had heard that day, so her master was encouraged and became convinced that he could tell her about the rest of his journey across Westeros without distressing her significantly. He described some of the time he spent with the Brotherhood without Banners (though, of course, not _all_ of it) and much of the news of the realm he had learned while in a girl's homeland—news which did not impact his apprentice personally and so was more interesting than troublesome to her. He described his ride north, a part of the tale in which she seemed particularly interested. She was keen to know the very minute details, so hungry was she for descriptions of her childhood home. He obliged her, telling her of the snow and the trees and the ice he had seen, even his glimpse of Winterfell from a distance. She had grilled him about what he could see, desirous to understand the extent of the damage caused by Theon's sacking of the castle.

"There was some talk of the damage actually being caused by Bolton's bastard, Arya Stark's devoted husband," he revealed to her conspiratorially. "Men in taverns are not the most trustworthy sources, but if you listen carefully, you will sometimes hear some grains of truth you might not otherwise learn."

This was a lesson she did not need—she had learned plenty by talking little and listening always around the taverns of Braavos.

Her mentor passed briefly over his experience at the Wall, which he had approached wearing the face of a common Northern boy without many prospects, presenting himself for training to become a black brother. In this way, he endeavored to spend time learning what had transpired there. He left, of course, well short of the time he would be required to say his vows. The brothers were tight-lipped about what had happened to their former Lord Commander, but he was able to confirm through means surer than fire-gazing that the boy had indeed been murdered. Since no one talked of his survival or resurrection, the assassin had assumed that the vision was a mistake on the part of the deteriorating Red priest in Lady Stoneheart's service (Jaqen's apprentice knew differently, but said nothing and allowed him to continue his recounting unimpeded). From the Wall, he travelled to White Harbor and then Maidenpool, wearing yet another face in the service of the order, performing one task or another that he insisted she would not find interesting and was not allowed to know the details of, anyway.

"It is not a girl's business to know," he said simply.

"Did you ever hear any news of my sister?" she asked sleepily, stifling a yawn.

"Only rumors, lovely girl, and none that a man could confirm, each purporting a different fate for her. Most often, it was said that she had married a dwarf, murdered his royal nephew, then flew across the water to Essos, but this seems doubtful."

She nodded, agreeing that the tale did not sound like Sansa _at all_. Especially the part about marrying a dwarf. She imagined her sister would slit her own throat before allowing that to happen. She would have had to be tricked into it somehow.

Her master did not tell her of the more likely and more disturbing rumor; that the oldest Stark girl was a creature of Lord Baelish, playing some important role in one of the scoundrel's more convoluted and sinister plots and that he had married her to some heir or another and planned to spring her on the North when the time was right. Or, perhaps use her child, providing it was a son. A boy would be more likely to win the North's allegiance, especially if there was any association with the reviled Littlefinger.

After telling nearly all of his tale, Jaqen rose from her side where he had been sitting as she lay back against the stack of pillows and told her he had matters to tend to just then.

"In the gloom of night?" she laughed, glancing out of the open window at the darkness.

"A man has duties," he said simply, "but will return. A girl will stay here."

"Is lounging in a rented room in the nicest inn in Braavos part of my training?" she asked dubiously, smirking at him.

"_Obedience_ is part of a girl's training," he replied with no trace of mirth, then repeated, "A girl will stay _here_."

"And a man will return," she answered coldly, not sure why his command irked her. Perhaps it was just fatigue. And of course the fact that she still hated to be told what to do.

"Yes, a man will return," he repeated, ignoring her tone as he unbolted the door and placed his hand on the latch. "In time to tuck an evil child in for the night."

He closed the door behind him just as the pillow she threw struck the wall where his head had only just been a second before, her strangled scream chasing him down the hallway.

It was only a half hour later that there came a knock at the door once again. It would be the tavern wench, the Cat suspected, and her giant breasts, coming to clean up the supper things. She placed the veil once again over her face and opened the door to see the wench and two other boys, the young pot boy who she had seen earlier and another boy, older, probably of an age with the Cat. Her surprise showed on her face (though the crowd in her doorway was unlikely to note the look through the veil) as she registered the large tub the boys carried between them and the pail of steaming water in the wench's hand.

"Begging your pardon, M'lady," the wench said in a tone that suggested she was _not_, in fact, begging a lady's pardon, "but the captain, he said you would be wanting a bath and we could bring it when we came to clean the supper."

The servants swept past her and began to do their work while the widow stood back, aghast. _What in the seven bloody hells…_ As if in answer, the wench spoke to the widow.

"The captain said that you were left out of sorts by grief and wine and he thought a bath might restore you."

_Grief and wine, indeed._ It made sense. It was a story the servants of the inn would accept, a grieving widow drowning her sorrows in her wine. And it just so happened that it was true, although she wasn't sure she would have used such as mild turn of phrase as "out of sorts" to describe anything she had felt that day.

As the tavern girl gathered the supper dishes, stacking them and frowning at the spilled wine before wiping it up, the boys began traipsing in and out of the room, carrying steaming pail after steaming pail of water and dumping it into the great wooden basin. The wench left with the dishes then returned as the boys completed their task. In her hands she held some clean linen, a brush for scrubbing, a chunk of brownish soap, a large comb, and… _something else._

"What _is_ that," the widow demanded, pointing to the bundles of long, fine cloth draped over the servant's arm.

"Oh!" the girl exclaimed, her dimples showing then. "This is the most beautiful gown and robe! It's really so fine…" The girl's voice trailed off, sounding dreamy, as if she could think of nothing better than a gown and a robe that were really _so fine_. The widow scowled, uncertain of the meaning of a _gown_ and a _robe_ in this instance but misliking the way the wench said it, feeling as if she was about to hear the end of a jape and it would be at her expense.

"Are you bringing those garments to the next room?" the widow queried in her Pentoshi-accented Braavosi. "Is there another lady you need to deliver things to? I'll not hold you here, if you'll just leave the bath things."

"Oh, no! These things are for _you_, M'lady," the girl answered, giggling. "The captain, he said your widow's gown would need washing. He said it _smelled of the sea_."

Here, the girl eyed her suggestively, plainly thinking that _smelling of the sea_ meant something vastly different than _smelling_ of the actual thrice-damned _sea._ The Cat continued to stare at the girl and waited for her to elaborate.

"Well, he said, the captain that is, that you would need something to wear while your clothes were being cleaned. So he sent _this_."

She put the bath things next to the steaming tub and then carefully unfurled the fine clothes for the widow to inspect. The Cat couldn't make sense of them. The robe seemed… just a robe, though very fine and dyed the dark purple favored among the wealthy of Braavos, but the _gown_…

"I'm supposed to wear _that_?" the Cat asked, incredulous. "It's not _decent_. You can see right through it!"

And it was true. The gown was a wispy white shell, no more. The material was as soft as sin, and delicate, looking more like gossamer than cloth; finer even than her dark veil. It looked as if it might dissolve beneath her fingers if she dared touch it. _Who wore such things?_

"Well, M'lady, no one expects you to parade in public in it," the girl giggled, rather insolently, the widow thought. "It's for _sleeping_. It's a sleeping gown!"

Of course it was. A _sleeping_ gown. And a robe. And a bath. And a master who would return _in time to tuck an evil child in for the night._

"This cloth is so beautiful," the wench prattled as she spread the garments out on the bed. "They must have cost a small fortune. If I worked every day for a hundred years, I could never afford something like this. The captain must… _admire_ you very much."

There was something implied in her tone that the Cat did not care to explore.

"You can _have_ them," the widow told her, then added for good measure, "and I _hope _he admires me. The captain is my father." _Ha! Now it _really_ seems as if a man has grown old and slow of late _the Cat snickered to herself.

"Oh!" the wench gasped in surprise. "Your _father_. M'lady is very generous but I don't think I could fit into these clothes. They look as if they were _made_ for you, and you are… quite thin."

It was clearly meant as in insult but the Cat paid her no mind. Trying to tuck and roll, leaping around with two swords, or hiding behind a lemon tree with _that_ giant bosom would be next to impossible. She did not envy the wench her very abundant _endowments_ or her lack of _thinness._

"And will your _father_ be returning?" the tavern girl asked, clearly calculating her chance of getting some fine clothes of her own, now that she had learned the captain was not the widow's paramour.

"He's left, going back out to sea. I suppose this was his parting gift."

"Oh," the servant said in a disappointed voice. "Well, he must love you very much to have given you such a gift."

"I'm his only child," the Cat replied for no particular reason. And in a way, it was true.

"If you'd like to disrobe now, I can help you wash your hair," the girl suggested.

"What? _No_! I mean, I can do it myself," the Cat said, aghast.

"I'm sorry, M'lady, but the captain was very specific."

_Obedience is part of a girl's training_ she heard echoing in her head. At first, she gritted her teeth but then sighed resignedly. She undressed as quickly as she could, reluctantly dropping the veil atop her piled clothing, and hopped into the hot bath, feeling the sting of the steaming water on her skin, turning it pink almost immediately. After several minutes of the chatty tavern wench scrubbing and cleaning her with the brush and soap, washing and rinsing her hair and then using the comb to relieve the mane of its tangles (_bloody tangles. Jaqen hadn't mentioned that when he said growing her hair out would be a useful exercise)_, the Cat began to relax and enjoy the heat of the water. Her muscles were still very sore from her master's sadistic sparring requirements, and soaking gave her some relief. She closed her eyes and leaned her head back against the edge of the tub, thinking that with her long day, the wine, and her draining emotional meltdown, she could just go to sleep right there in the warm water.

"Would M'lady like to dry off now?" the wench asked her, disturbing her reverie.

"No, I think I'll soak for a while," the Cat told her with a dismissive wave. "I can dry myself off if you leave the linen."

"As you wish," the girl said, rising and gathering the other bath things she had not been directed to leave. "But M'lady may like to bolt the door after me. This is a reputable inn, but with your father gone, a lady alone cannot be too careful."

"Just so," the Cat thought, eyeing her three daggers piled on the table near the bed. Still, thinking of her master's promise to return, she did as the wench suggested so that she would not be surprised by him again in the bath. She dripped a trail of water across the floor to the door, slid the bolt into place and turned to retrace her steps to the tub. As she did, she noted that the girl had left the half-empty carafe of sweet red along with one of the goblets. They sat invitingly on the table near the window, so she changed course and poured herself another goblet of wine (_to relax_, she thought) before settling herself once again in the pleasantly warm water.

She tried not to think of all the things she had learned today, wanting a respite from all the _thinking_ she had already done, but it was nearly impossible for her to calm the roiling storm in her mind, so she took three long swallows of her wine, waiting for the sweet red to do for her what she could not do on her own. After a few moments had passed and she only felt minimal effects from her drink, she drained her cup in another three large gulps. The Cat laid her head back against the edge of the tub once more, exhaling slowly, and watched the faint tendrils of steam as they curled and rose from the surface of the water, vanishing into the air. She spent long moments emptying her mind of all but the patterns of the steam and then she tilted her head all the way back and stared at the ceiling. _How strange_ she thought as the rafters began to slowly move, curling just as the tendrils of steam had done. When she closed her eyes, she found it was not the ceiling which was lazily curling and rolling by, but _herself_. It made her feel a bit sick, like a green cabin boy might feel after his first few hours on a ship out to sea, if he had a weak stomach.

Misliking the feeling, she decided to leave her bath and dry off, thinking to lay herself in the soft bed and regain her balance. As she rose from the warm water, she nearly collapsed, so unstable was the floor beneath her feet. For half an instant, she feared the inn was crashing down on top of her and that she would be buried in an avalanche of rubble. The earth must be quaking or exploding around Braavos in some small version of the Doom of Valyria, she thought. For some reason, the very idea made her giggle.

"The Doom of Braavos," she snorted to no one. "Brought on by the _Bravos_ offending the gods with their ridiculous clothes!"

She laughed uproariously at her own jape, stumbling across the room to the table, thinking to pour more wine into her empty cup. As she neared the table and felt a brief, gentle breeze blow in through the open window, carrying the smells of the streets to her nose, he stomach suddenly seized and she was overcome with distress. The window was curving around a central point, rotating on an axis, but she was driven to grab at the casement anyway, and stick her head out of the turning aperture. She did so just in time to empty half of the contents of her stomach onto the street below. She heard the delayed _splat_ that came a few short seconds after she first retched, and the sound of it inspired a more violent fit of retching. She vomited up all of her wine, all of her supper, most of her lunch, and probably everything she had consumed for the past two weeks. At least, that's what it felt like to her. She retched until there was nothing left to bring up and then heaved up the very air from within her, for good measure. Only then did it occur to her to suspect the wine. She had seen drunken men her whole life, some as sick as she, but she had never _experienced_ the after effects to too much wine herself. Seeing knights too deep in their cups bolt suddenly from their tables to vomit in the alley outside of a winesink was one thing but _experiencing it herself_ was something else entirely.

Giving an agonized cry, something along the lines of "Oh, _gods!", _she stumbled back into the chair behind her, the one she had leapt up from when she heard Jaqen's news about Jon, and sat in it heavily, both miserable and wet, the room still spinning around her. She moaned, slamming the goblet in her hand onto the table and swore that she would never, ever, ever_, ever_ drink wine again. After the spinning of the room slowed a bit, she stood from her chair, having dripped mostly dry, and gingerly padded across the floor, in search of the linen wrap the wench had left for her. She dipped her cupped palm into the bath water and brought a handful of it to her lips, sloshing it around inside of her mouth and then spitting the soapy stuff back into the tub, thus replacing the sour taste of bile with the bitter burning of the soap on her tongue, not sure which was worse. She then found the cloth and dried the remaining water droplets from her flesh and then scrubbed hard at her hair, undoing all the tavern wench's careful labor at combing it straight.

Looking around, she noted that the tavern girl had absconded with her widow's raiment, so she reluctantly slipped on the wispy gown and then pulled the dark robe over it, noting that though it, too, was whisper-thin, at least it wasn't _sheer. _There were candles strewn about the room, lit by the pot boy when the wench had served their supper, and they had burned low. She stumbled around the room, blowing them out weakly, one by one, craving the darkness so at least she wouldn't have to watch the ceiling mock her with its slow orbit as she lay abed. Once she had extinguished the last of the candles, she fell into bed and curled herself in a ball under the soft covers, swearing to _never forget_ her vow about the wine. Soon, she was snoring peacefully, her cheek pressed against the cool of her pillow, mouth slightly agape.

She felt the wind gently tugging at her fur even as she heard it howl through the trees, sounding like one of her littermates, perhaps her lost sister, who hunted in the Nightlands now. The game in this part of the forest was getting more scarce and soon she would have to lead her cousins to new hunting grounds. Word of the presence of her large pack seemed to have spread, keeping even the men they might prey upon away. It troubled her that she would have to leave. She felt she was supposed to be here. The placed called to some ancient part of her. Not the way her snowy home had. Not the way the white trees with the blood-red leaves had. But still… something was going to happen here and she needed to be present when it did. She could not ignore the needs of her cousins, though. She would not let them starve. She would simply have to return; to trust her instinct to tell her _when._ But tonight, she would move her pack.

She walked slowly out of the tree line, toward the wooden structure in which the children slept. She felt strange as she walked, unsteady on her feet. She shook her great head several times, trying to clear the haze that seemed to have descended upon her. When it did not work, she laid her ears back and whined, slinking toward the steps of the inn.

He was sitting on the steps, polishing his greatsword. He looked up when he heard her whine and spoke to her as if she were part of his man-pack.

"Well, hello there, Lady Nymeria," he greeted courteously as he used his dirty rag to swipe at his blade in long, steady movements after he had drawn the steel across the stone block he had settled at his feet. "To what do I owe the pleasure?"

She whined again then settled herself on the ground, dropping her large head upon her paws and panting. She really wasn't feeling very well at all.

"Just looking for some company, eh?" he replied genially as if she had answered. "But you have a whole pack of little cousins to keep you company. Why seek my society?"

He drew the edge of the sword slowly across the stone in three long strokes, the sound piercing her ears and bringing another whine. He set about swiping at the blade again with his cloth.

"I suppose I have my pack too, even if they are all underage, half-starved orphans. But you and I, we have something in common, don't we M'lady?" he asked the wolf, halting his polishing as he regarded her eyes staring back at him. "We both _miss her_."

The wolf laid her ears back once again, a short growl rumbling in her throat.

"Well, it's true," the knight sniffed, "though I suppose soon I'll be too busy to think on it much."

He sounded as if he were saying it in the hopes that it would be true rather than with the conviction of actually believing what he was saying. He continued his work, watching the blade as it became more and more shiny, and resumed his conversation with the wolf without looking at her.

"Can I tell you a secret, M'lady? I had a _dream_ about her. I dreamed she came back. Right here, to this place. She came back and she looked _so_…"

_Like a queen_, he might have said. _A queen of winter._

His voice trailed off and he rubbed harder and harder at the steel in his lap. The wolf heard his words and somehow understood them, even through the unpleasant haze in her head. _She came back. Right here, to this place._ That seemed right. It was what had called her here, she knew suddenly. It was why she was reluctant to leave, but leave she must.

And he must, too, as he told her.

"Lem is coming back in a fortnight. He's staying with the orphans, training them, while I take my turn riding with our Lady," he told her, looking again into her furry face, sounding almost mournful. "To tell you the truth, I'm a little sorry about it, even though I'm about to go mad training these broken children to fight, with no one else to talk to. Oh, begging your pardon, M'lady. There's _you_, of course."

He laughed, likely at his own folly for speaking to a monstrously large direwolf like she was his own closest confidant. "But it's the dream, you see. The dream, it just felt… _real_. And if I leave, and she comes back, here to this place… I guess I don't want to miss that. You can understand that, right M'lady?"

The wolf whined again and it seemed to him that she understood him completely.

"But that's just stupid talk, right? The talk of a bull-headed bastard boy who never knew much about anything except a hammer and a forge," he said quietly in his self-deprecating way. "I mean, it's a bloody dream, not some Red priest's prophesy or whatever. She's in _Braavos_, if you can trust that strange, foreign assassin. Why would she come back here, with things like they are?"

His sigh was wistful as he inspected his greatsword, seemingly satisfied with his work. He stood, lifting the steel and turning the point to the night sky, resting the flat of the blade against his shoulder as he descended the steps and walked into the yard toward the wolf. She rose at his approach, tongue lolling and trying to focus on the knight even though the house behind him seemed to be rocking like some great ship at sea.

They stood in the yard, staring at each other for a long moment before the knight leaned forward slightly, locking his blazing blue eyes onto hers and spoke softly in a voice that reminded her of hope and innocence and longing.

"Goodnight, M'lady."


	21. Chapter 21

"Why does a girl whine and growl in her sleep?" her master's voice said, and she could not understand why she was hearing it as she stared into Gendry's face. "Are you unwell?"

There was a trace of amusement in his tone, as if he knew bloody well that she was _unwell_ and the Cat cracked an eye to see her mentor's face, hovering above hers, peering at her in the faint moonlight streaming in through the open window of her room at the inn. _I'm at the inn in Braavos, not the one in Westeros. __Another dream_ she slowly realized through the haze in her head, noting that Jaqen's shadowed face was rotating lazily above her as if it were caught in the current of a great whirlpool. _Another wolf dream. And Gendry was there. _She tried to recall the details but she could spare no further thought for the dream, so distracted was she by the rocking of her bed and the clenching of her stomach. She still felt terrible.

"How did you get in?" she asked Jaqen hoarsely, her mouth feeling like it was stuffed with wool, and particularly foul-tasting wool at that. She pinched the bridge of her nose between her thumb and forefinger, squinting her eyes in a vain effort to dispel the illness weighing her thoughts down like stones weighing down a sack in the bottom of a river. She might be having trouble with her concentration, but she was _certain_ she had bolted the door.

He laughed, and the jape, as far as she could determine, seemed to be why in the Seven Hells would anyone believe something as conventional as a bloody _bolted door_ could stop a Faceless Man from entering a room? She moaned as a fresh wave of nausea struck her and she closed her eyes again to try to stave it off, thinking that perhaps this was the most miserable feeling ever felt by anyone, anywhere, any time in history.

"So a widow got too deep in her cups after all," he snickered quietly, but there was at least a trace of sympathy in his voice.

"I will never drink wine again," she vowed, groaning her pain into her pillow, her misery plain in her voice.

"This is not the worst of it," her master warned her. "When you awaken in the morning, you will wish you were dead."

"I wish I was dead _now_," she lamented pitifully as her stomach lurched again.

Jaqen sighed, overcome with a mixture of pity and the almost continuous vexation he felt with her for being so stupid. She should have known better. But then, how could she? In many ways, she was still such a child, and he hadn't been here. _To protect her from herself_ he thought.

"Here, foolish girl, sit up."

"I don't think I _can_," she nearly wept as her hair splayed wildly all around her head like a great, dark sunburst, her voice muffled as she pressed her face deep into the pillow, hoping to suffocate.

She heard Jaqen's damnable chuckling then felt him roll her onto her back and bend her at the waist, lifting her into a seated position. Her hand flew to her mouth and pressed tightly against her lips, a warning of the rising sickness she was experiencing and she nearly retched right there. Her body shook with her effort to control the urge to vomit.

Her master comforted her with shushing sounds as he slipped behind her, his back propped against the tall headboard. One leg was bent in front of him while the other was thrown over the side of the bed, his foot pushing against the floor. In her misery, the Cat did not wonder at his actions, but merely used every wit she had to try to convince her stomach not to betray her and empty its meager contents right there onto the coverlet.

"Lean back," he murmured, placing his fingertips on her temples, gently massaging them. The gesture was mildly soothing and so she obeyed him, pressing her back into his chest, her head hanging down, staring at her own lap as she groaned yet again. After a moment, she felt him slide his right hand from her temple to her neck, then her shoulder, and finally trailing it down her arm until he was clutching her hand in his own. This time, she was unable to control her shivering and her master asked her if she was cold while her skin turned to goose-flesh, tickling her arms and neck.

"Mmmm," was all she could manage, neither a confirmation nor a denial.

She felt his fingers working on her palm and then his thumb settled in the spot between her own thumb and index finger, tracing lazy circles on her flesh. Her discomfort lessened slightly and she pulled her head up slowly, and then dropped the back of it heavily onto Jaqen's left shoulder, turning to face the window. The moonlight streaming in lit up the nearly empty wine carafe, giving it a ghostly glow and throwing its long shadow across the table. It seemed as if the thing were taunting her as it twisted and rolled around in circles, luminous and undulating. It was too much. She felt a the bile creep up her throat once again, the discomfort hitting her, quite literally, like a punch in her gut. She closed her eyes against the offending image and turned her face away from it, settling her brow and nose in the crook of her mentor's neck. Something deep inside of her, maybe that horrible voice, seemed to warn her that this was not quite _proper_ but the sound of the nagging was drowned out by her own persistent inebriation and her determination not to vomit on her master.

After another minute, his grip on her hand tightened and she was pierced with a sudden, intense pain as the Lorathi pinched that soft, sensitive part of her palm next to her thumb between his own thumb and first finger, _hard_. Her head flew up from his shoulder and she screamed, the agony nearly unbearable. It felt as if he had driven a spike through her flesh; a large, dull, _rusty_ spike. She let out a string of curses that would have curled the tavern wench's hair, _had it not already been so gorgeously curly (_here, the Cat spared just a tiny moment to indulge her inexplicable hatred of the wench and pictured the buxom girl's curls on _fire_), and almost blackened Jaqen's eye before she realized that her discomfort had eased greatly. She felt… alright. _Almost normal._

"What did you _do_?" she hissed at him as she glared at the silhouette of his face over her shoulder, pulling her hand out of his grip and lifting it to her mouth as the pain emanating from her palm abated. Still, she sucked on the tender spot as a child might, furrowing her brow as the haze in her head lifted somewhat.

She felt her mentor shrug against her back and then heard his voice saying, "A man will teach you. The healers in Asshai know many such tricks."

"Do all these tricks make you feel as if you've been struck by lightning?" she groused even though her hand now felt completely better and her nausea was gone.

"Most of them," he admitted nonchalantly. "Some of them make you feel worse than being struck by lightning, but only for a moment."

"Hmm," was her only response as she carefully looked around the room, testing her vision, ensuring the things that should be stable were no longer spinning and rocking. She seemed to be cured though her drowsiness remained. The fatigue was almost overwhelming and she leaned back against Jaqen's chest once again, not entertaining any ideas of _propriety _after all she had endured that day. She thought spitefully that Umma and her master's teasing and her stupid little head-voice could all be damned if they thought she cared one little bit about their judgment. The two of them sat that way quietly, master and apprentice, for what seemed like a long time with Jaqen's hands moving in steady lines up and down the girl's arms, warming her; soothing her. She found her eyes growing heavier, closing, then opening, then closing again. The rise and fall of her master's steady breathing against her back lulled her gradually and she found she could not fight the urging of the gentle rhythm or her own fatigue any longer. She was half asleep when her master spoke again in his low, lilting voice.

"A man has recalled that he forgot to tell a girl an important bit of news from Westeros."

"Please," she murmured softly, barely audible. She didn't even bother opening her heavy lids. "I don't know if I can take any more _important bits of news_ just now."

"This bit of news, a man thinks a lovely girl will like," he coaxed, his promise made evident in his tone. When she did not object, he continued, "It seems a snake-prince answered one of your most fervent prayers."

"Hmm? Snake... prince..." she responded, too tired to muster much more than that, even though this sounded interesting.

"Yes. There was a trial by combat involving a prince of Dorne and the Mountain That Rides. It seems Prince Oberyn Martell pierced Ser Gregor Clegane with a poisoned spear. The Mountain died after many long days of screaming and unimaginable agony despite a disgraced maester's constant ministrations."

Her eyes flew open. She bolted upright in the bed and spun around, kneeling on the mattress before her master, leaning eagerly toward him. She was suddenly wide awake.

"_Ser Gregor_?" she breathed, her eyes shining in the moonlight.

"Is no more," Jaqen completed her sentence, confirming the legitimacy of the hope so apparent in her voice.

She might have chosen a disembowelment, or perhaps drawing and quartering with four fat, slow, lazy donkeys in place of fast stallions, but she was only marginally disappointed that it had been poison. That it was a _slow_ and _painful_ poison cheered her considerably and that Ser Gregor must have been aware he was dying for days and days with no power to change his fate was... Well, there were no words for what that was.

"Prince Oberyn…" she mused. She might just have a new hero.

"Sadly, the Red Viper was killed in their fight, but not before he had done his damage."

_Dead? Oh, well. Maybe she would write a song about him. Well, that would never happen. Maybe she would pay a singer to write a song about him. Or, force a singer to write a song about him at sword point…_

He could only see her faintly in the moonlight, but the same shining joy he had detected when he told her about her mother punishing scores of Freys was illustrated in her features, and even in the dim light, she was exquisite; almost otherworldly. He laid his head back against the headboard, his hooded eyes turned on the girl, and drank her rapture in for a minute before he bade her turn back around and go to sleep. The Cat insisted that she was too excited to sleep after such news.

"How am I supposed to sleep _now?_" she demanded, not unkindly. He could hear the smile in her voice.

"Should a man sing you a lullaby?" he teased, grasping her shoulders and turning her around, drawing the coverlet over her legs and pressing her back against him once again.

She snorted her derision, declaring that even when she _was_ of an age where a lullaby might have soothed her, she had hated them, preferring instead to drift off to sleep while listening to Old Nan's tales of the great ice spiders and white walkers and other terrors beyond the wall. But she relaxed against him nonetheless.

"It is bedtime stories a lovely girl prefers, then?" her mentor mused. "Very well, a man lives to serve. Though he is no _Old Nan, _a man has a most delightful tale for his apprentice."

She almost told him that she had heard enough of his _delightful tales_ to last her until the next red comet, but she wondered what he was playing at, and so said nothing. He continued talking, his hushed voice mesmerizing her as his hands gathered her long hair, pulling it from the space between their bodies and tossing it over her one shoulder. This laid one side of her neck bare. She felt him place his thumb behind her exposed ear as his fingers gently wrapped themselves under her jaw and more than halfway around her neck. The thumb began kneading the spot it touched and she felt unaccountably relaxed, all at once. She resolved that she _really _must learn more about his time with the healers in Asshai.

"There was once a girl, an evil child, really, who had a most wise master," he began in his softly purring way, ignoring the growl whose rumble he could feel in the Cat's throat, beneath his fingers. "This girl loved hearing tales of her master's exploits and once asked if her most beloved master had killed anyone during his travels through the Riverlands."

"Yes, and you said _no one who did not need killing_," she recalled, wondering where this was going.

"Just so. It happens that when this master was visiting Riverlands, he spent many days and nights riding with his temporary brothers, a group that pledged loyalty to the small folk of the land and were led by a fearsome Lady."

"I've heard this tale before," the girl told him, sighing her disinterest.

"An ungrateful girl has only heard _part_ of the tale," Jaqen chided. "Now, where were we? Ah, yes... One day, as he and the Lady's men were riding a few leagues from Riverrun, this wise and most _patient_ master crossed paths with a small party of men from Maidenpool. They claimed to be envoys on their way to Riverrun, now held by a contemptible joint force of Lannisters and Freys. The small band from Maidenpool was only four men strong and therefore was easily waylaid by Lady Stoneheart's men. _And_ the evil child's master. Two of the envoys were taken before the Lady for judgment."

"And the other two, were they killed when you ambushed them?" she guessed.

"No," her master replied. "Those two, the master judged for himself. Their names were of great interest to him, as he had long heard them and felt almost as if he _knew_ them, so famous were they."

Her mind raced—some famous men; men with deeds known far and wide, most likely. A pair of great knights? Or perhaps rich lords? A Lannister ally, and ally to the crown, it had to be, just based on the point of origin and the destination. But _who_? If Jaqen knew their names, she surely did to. Jaime Lannister? That would make sense. Or perhaps Ramsay Bolton? Less likely; he was holed up in the North still, most like. Perhaps a traitorous Karstark? But none of them were particularly famous. At least, all the well-known Karstarks were dead. Kevan Lannister? One of the surviving Freys? Walder Frey would be much too old for such a treacherous cross-country ride, even if the decrepit wretch _was _still alive. It couldn't have been anyone from the royal household, although _Tyrion_ Lannister had not been heard from in quite some time...

"A girl asked a man if he brought her anything back from his trip," he said, seeming to change course in his story. "A gift for his apprentice."

She thought of the long, wooden case she had seen her master carrying from the ship to the Armorers District and then replied, "And you said you didn't."

"No, foolish child. A man said he had no gift for _no one,"_ he reminded her and then, drawing his lips to her ear, he whispered, "However, there _is _a gift for _Arya Stark_."

She sucked in her breath, unsure of how she should react. Jaqen almost never used her real name and when he did, it was typically to tell her to stop thinking of herself that way. Was this some sort of test? Was she supposed to object, saying Arya Stark was dead and he could just keep his gift since it wasn't for _no one? _The problem was, Arya Stark _wasn't_ dead. Changed, yes. Evolved, even. But not _dead. _Not quite.

And there was also another problem: she really, really, _really_ wanted to know what her master had brought back for her.

Jaqen pushed her back off of his chest, allowing himself room to ease his body from the mattress. His apprentice watched his dark form move away from her with a tiny grain of… _regret_? She fell back onto her pillow and closed her heavy lids, trying to understand what her master was telling her. She was so lost in her own thoughts that she didn't register that Jaqen was lighting a candle (_how?_) until the bright flame was assaulting her eyes, blinding her momentarily.

"What in the…" she started to sputter, sitting up once again. At first, she saw nothing but the light, but as her eyes adjusted, she noted that her master was standing near the window, having placed the lit candle on the table. The bloody wine and goblet had been removed (_where?_) and in their place was a box.

"Where did that come from?" she asked stupidly, blinking to be sure it wasn't some trick of the wine or the dancing shadows thrown by the flickering candle.

Jaqen said nothing, reclining against the window, nearly sitting in it, his one hand hooked to his sword belt by the thumb, his other hand giving a flourishing gesture from her reclining form to the box, indicating that it was for her to open. Apprehensively, she threw her legs over the side of the bed and stood, grateful that she felt steady on her feet. She approached the table slowly, shivering more with anticipation than with cold, though she noted almost unconsciously that the thin material of the gown and robe given to her by her _father_ hardly provided any protection against the night breeze drifting in through the window, stirring her master's hair as he stood in its path.

As she reached the table, her heart pounded with excitement and a touch of fear. She studied the chest settled upon the table, running her hands over the polished wood and feeling its contours. It was a small box, not the much larger one she had spied her mentor carrying to Meerios Dinast's armory. This box was less than a foot long, and only half again as deep. A small treasure chest. She thought it looked like it might hold gold or jewels and scowled. She hoped her master had not brought her some pretty trinket. Certainly, he knew her better than _that. _No, Jaqen was never a fool. Throwing jewels around the Cat's neck would be no more sensible than attempting to place a wig upon a wolf's head. It did not improve the wolf in any way, and it was like to get a man's hand torn off. Whatever was in this box, be it truly a gift or something meant to teach her an elaborate lesson about the importance of being _no one,_ she was certain it would not be some useless thing.

Under his expectant gaze, she eagerly opened the hinged lid of the small chest. Inside were two objects, of similar size, texture and color. Oblong, like eggs, but larger than any egg she had seen, and the shape not quite as regular. The things had a sort of brownish-gray cast and a rough texture, with surfaces almost dusty-appearing. She reached in and pulled one out, feeling its weight, which was surprisingly light. Not solid, then. She cocked her head and brought the object closer to her eye, turning it over in the dim light thrown by the candle and seeing the lines and veins trailing around it, leading to its apex. Her eyes widened and she exclaimed in surprise.

"A _heart!_"

"Two hearts," he corrected.

"But… _what?_" she stuttered in confusion, grabbing the other desiccated organ out of the box so that both of her hands were now clutching the things. "_Or… who?"_

Her master looked at her as a doting father looks at his only child, hoping the present he has given the child for his nameday pleases him greatly. Satisfied that she would appreciate his gift once it was explained, he said in a lilting voice, "This is all that remains of the men named Dunsen and Raff the Sweetling."

Her mouth slowly opened as she turned her face to his. The candlelight danced off of her pale cheek and he watched her chest heaving through the delicate cloth of her robe and gown. Her wide eyes were unblinking.

Some girls go weak-kneed with gifts, weeping over jewels and expensive bolts of cloth with which they would have ridiculous gowns made. Myrish lace had been a particularly popular gift among the silliest of the ladies in King's Landing during her sojourn there. She had once seen a kitchen girl weep over a bundle of fresh-picked wildflowers given her by a handsome stable boy at Winterfell. But _this_ gift… This gift was beyond all compare. In her lifetime, she had been given dolls, dresses, a fine saddle, and ribbons for her hair (which she promptly used to weave a net in which to trap baby Rickon when they played at being Night's Watch and wildlings). But none of those things could touch the very core of her the way _this_ did, this gift of _justice;_ this gift of _death. _She felt a charge she couldn't put words to pulsing from deep within her, buzzing through her veins, causing a pleasantly painful tingling in her fingers and toes. Standing there clutching the two hearts to her purple-robed breast, staring adoringly into Jaqen's face, she felt the undeniable certainty that at this moment, in this instant in her life, she had finally understood the depth of her master's devotion to her and that it was a thing of flawless beauty. The only gift she had _ever_ received that could remotely compare to this was Needle, and it was cherished for the exact same reason: the giver had understood her completely and had found a token to express that understanding _perfectly_.

"Jaqen," she whispered, "This is… I…"

"A man knows."

"_Thank you_," she breathed, not even disgruntled that she would now be unable to carry out her long-dreamed of retribution herself. She had confidence that her master would have taken care of her enemies most… _fittingly_. And besides, she still had _Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, and Queen Cersei._

Jaqen, seeming to read her thoughts (as ever), left his perch in the window and placed his hands upon her shoulders, telling her, "Do not worry, lovely girl, you may get your chance yet."

She shook her head to show him she was not bothered and then smiling, told him wildly, "I could almost _kiss_ you!"

"A man would not object," he said, smirking at her as she moved the dry organs into her one hand. She raised herself up on her toes, placing her other cool hand against his left cheek as she lightly kissed the right. He chuckled at that then told her, "Off to bed! A girl has two swords she will have to spar with in the morning and fatigue will be no excuse!"

He watched her replace the hearts into their case reverently, then fly to her bed, hopping onto the mattress with the irrepressible exuberance of youth. She hid herself under the coverlet with the air of a giddy maid who has been crowned the queen of love and beauty, although perhaps that was not the most appropriate analogy, as in some accounts he had heard, this crowning had not always been the lighthearted thing it ought to have been. It struck him as strange that he should feel sad about that, considering those about whom the story was told were dead and gone and strangers to him, anyway. But as he leaned back against the seat of the window sill, resting there, he felt a sense of melancholy.

He brushed away the emotion with the easy manner of an experienced Faceless Man and then teased his apprentice for good measure.

"Sleep well," he told her, then added, "_M'lady."_

She sat upright and gave him a shocked look. It was _most_ satisfying for him. He had already warned her that she talked in her sleep. He would have to find something to do about that. That she _had_ the wolf dreams, he accepted. That _others_ might come to know about them was another thing altogether. Her master worried that already, the principle elder suspected what she was doing and Jaqen knew that there was no _talent_ that his devout brother would not exploit in the name of the Many-Faced god. He resolved to find something to at least mask her… condition. Hopefully, this would save her from becoming, once again, nothing more than a pawn in some larger game, albeit a deadly, elegant, very _special_ pawn.

After the lovely girl's shock had settled into glaring and her glaring had settled into eye-rolling, and her eye-rolling had finally been masked by her heavy lids, she laid her head upon the soft pillows and seemed to settle back into the slumber he had earlier disturbed. This time, it seemed much more peaceful. No wolf dreams, then. Those counted almost as sparring, so much thrashing and talking and action did they involve at times.

As he watched her drift off to sleep, he cast his mind back to his first sighting of her through the bars of a rolling cage in which he had placed himself for the purposes of yet another Westerosi mission. He had known almost instantly that she was special. There was something in those storm-grey eyes; something in the way she refused to back down, even when threatened by those capable of crushing her with one hand. The fearlessness was remarkable, but it was more than that. There was a belief in her, a true and utter belief that she would persevere and the belief itself became a sort of power. When she saved him from the Red god, it had only solidified the plans that had already been half-formed, snaking and winding through his mind on the King's Road as he moved northward with the Night's Watch..

Most acolytes come to enter the service of the Many-Faced god through doorways born of fear and folly or abandonment and desperation. His own path to the ebony and weirwood doors had been guided by great loss and sorrow. The House accepted all those who showed the will and strength to do what was asked. But _Arya _was different. In Arya, Jaqen had seen a rare chance; a chance to _choose_. He could _sense_ in her the potential to be great. The courage and the strength she possessed far exceeded that which any girl of her age should command. And there was something _else_; something undefinable about her. He had come to believe it was the thing he half-jokingly referred to as the magic of the old gods in her blood. But whatever it was, it sang out to him the same way he believed her blood sang out to the steel of her knives and her dreams sang out to her wolf. Jaqen had seen this girl, playing at being a boy, and had _known_ _instantly _her secret and her true identity and her very _destiny-_the destiny of a highborn daughter of a great house of the Seven Kingdoms-and he had willfully sought to reshape it. He _chose_ her and he tempted her with his iron coin, ignoring what was _meant_ to be; not caring what her fate had already mapped for her. He had resolved that it would be _his_ design that directed her life.

Her master knew that back in Westeros, some shriveled septa or wizened maester would have delighted in _refining_ his lovely girl, smoothing all of her rough edges and drilling into her all the meaningless courtesies spewed mindlessly from ten thousand ordinary mouths. The would pin her up in corseted gowns, curbing her very breath, and drain her perfect wildness out of her as one would bleed a dying man. Jaqen, however, delighted in those rough edges and was enraptured to discover the wildness within her. He felt honor-bound to guide her ability to _use it_, not smoothing it out of existence but shaping it into something perhaps less rough but much more beautiful; much more useful.

And much more _dangerous_.

He had snatched a lovely girl from the clutches of Westerosi ambition and exploitation, and he only hoped he hadn't driven her back to the crushing jaws of that perilous world with all that he had told her today. She was not ready for that, no matter how foolishly brave she felt, and neither was he. It had pained him to leave her the first time, with only an iron coin as a guide. He had loathed the idea of leaving her unprotected in the wilderness of that barbaric land but he also knew she had the ability to survive. She had _proven_ it countless times before, as a mere child. But the chance that some errant arrow or starving wolf or malicious outlaw might keep her from her destiny, the destiny _he_ designed, gnawed at him as he wiped his sword on her shift in a crude and improvised initiation into the brotherhood of death, changed his face, and left her clutching his coin while wearing her gown of blood. Every night after that, until he had seen his lovely girl again, while Arya Stark whispered her list of names to the darkness and winds and uncaring gods, he said his own prayer to _his_ god. A girl's list was long, but his was short, comprised of one name only; one name and a fervent wish.

"Arya Stark," he had prayed each night for a year. "Bring her to me."

Tonight, as he watched her sleep and then slipped soundlessly out of the room and into the streets of Braavos, his prayer was different. Different, but the same.

"Arya Stark," he prayed as he walked briskly to the House of Black and White. "Do not take her from me."


	22. Chapter 22

The Cat, not wishing to disturb those seeking solace within the temple, climbed the high wall around the courtyard garden and dropped lightly into a crouch on the other side, landing behind a fig tree, rather than entering the place through the great ebony and weirwood doors. She stood, straightening her dark dress and, feeling that her wispy veil had fluttered up during her swift descent and arranged itself in a double sheet trailing down the back of her braided hair, pulled the delicate material back over her face. She looked up and meant to take a step out from behind the trees and onto the dark stone path that led to the back of the House of Black and White so that she might find her way into her cell and change into clothes more fit for sparring (_a girl has two swords she will have to spar with in the morning_) but her path was blocked by the Kindly Man.

The girl drew up short but managed to swallow down her surprise and give the principle elder a passive look. She had no doubt he could read her face, veil or no veil, and she wished to give him no cause for criticism. _Well, no more cause than clambering over the courtyard wall dressed as a widow_ she thought to herself. _Stillness_ her little voice said as she awaited his inevitable comment. _Stillness._

The sun had risen an hour earlier and the soft light slanted in over the east wall of the courtyard, illuminating the Kindly Man's soft grey hair from behind, making it appear as if he wore a halo of light and causing her to squint slightly as she looked at him. He spoke in his measured way, his quiet voice only just louder than the splashing water of the courtyard fountain.

"Our widow has returned," he observed mildly. "What three new things did you learn while you were away?"

She looked at him through her veil and met his eyes, determined to read them as best she could while she related her newfound knowledge.

"I learned that Faceless Men can enter rooms despite the strength of the bolt on the door."

"That is a good thing to know," he remarked, the cadence of his voice as gentle as a song. He awaited her next revelation with patience.

"I learned that sweet red wine from the Reach is more deadly than half of the poisons the waif keeps in her cupboards," she said wryly.

A small smile played on the Kindly Man's lips and his eyes travelled to the place where her hands were clasped together, held against her belly, and examined the small, rounded bruise on her right hand, near the base of her thumb.

"If only all poisons had such a convenient antidote," he replied, lifting his eyebrows as she traced the path of his gaze and noticed, for the first time, the deep purple mark in the shape of her master's thumb which had bloomed accusingly on her white flesh (_as purple as the fine robe a captain had gifted to a widow)_. Her face colored beneath her veil but she quickly added her third thing in order to leave this particular subject behind.

"I learned a Faceless Man with a fine longsword travels now to White Harbor aboard a ship."

The smile left the Kindly Man's face and for a fleeting instant, his gaze upon her face became much less _kindly_. But the change was so brief, she began to believe she had only imagined it, noting his expression now radiated his typical peaceful manner when she narrowed her eyes slightly to study him more intently through her misty shroud.

"Hmmm," he responded, not commenting further on her information. Completely changing the course of their conversation, the elder told her, "You should go quickly to the small dining hall and have some breakfast before your brothers consume it all. I understand your master expects you in the training room shortly before you are to help the cook in the kitchen before the midday meal."

She bobbed her head quickly in acknowledgement and waited until he turned from her and continued his leisurely stroll through the garden before she picked up her skirts and scampered down the dark stone path and through the door into the rear of the temple. Within minutes, she had shed the newly cleaned widow's raiment and dressed herself in her quilted doublet (it would provide at least _some_ protection from the flat of her master's blade), her soft, loose breeches and her high leather boots, dagger tucked safely inside. She entered the small dining hall like a whirlwind, patting Loric's head good-naturedly as she snatched some of the warm bread from the platter before him and hungrily consumed it in four large bites. Her uncharacteristically lively demeanor set the few of her brothers present to whispering but Loric, sweetly and pitiably guileless, simply asked her why she was so happy.

"Happy?" she asked, rolling the word around in her mouth, seeing how it felt. "Hmm. I guess I am happy. I hadn't thought of it."

"Yes, but _why?_" the darkly cherubic boy asked her.

She dropped into the chair next to him and leaned her face very near his, her grey eyes lighting up and her hushed voice hinting at a great intrigue she was choosing to share with him.

"I received a very fine gift," she told him conspiratorially.

They boy's eyes widened and he asked her, "Is it worth a lot of gold?"

"This gift is _priceless_," the Cat answered, but would say no more, no matter how much he begged. She ruffled his hair then, grinning at him and remembering how Jon had done very much the same thing to her a lifetime ago. This made her sigh wistfully but she would not allow the longing she felt when she thought of her brother to fully form before she packed it in that space she kept the feelings she did not wish to feel just then, lest they consume her.

Enjoying the feel of breeches and the supple leather boots against her legs after spending so much time in a dress, she almost skipped to the training room, glad to note that her soreness was now at a manageable level. Jaqen met her there and directed her to grab her swords and show him her stance. She did so, standing in her side face, water dancer's position, only this time, instead of her right arm being curved above her head for balance, she had it braced low against her side, elbow at her hip, the smaller of the blades gripped in that hand, pointing along the line dictated by her gaze, a menacing accomplice of her larger weapon.

Her master walked a slow circle around her, his thumb hooked in his sword belt. He looked her up and down, tapping her lower back briskly with the flat of his sword in order to tell her to straighten it further and then pushing her right shoulder slightly back and allowing her a moment to feel the difference it made in the weight of her smaller blade. He then nodded his approval and moved opposite her, sliding into his own stance and standing at the ready before he narrowed his eyes and spoke his simple command.

"Begin."

The Lorathi laid back a bit, taking a slow, leisurely approach with her today. He wanted to see how she would attack, she supposed, rather than how well she could evade and defend. At first, she remained tentative, but when he continued to hold back, she finally went on the attack. She found she had much more control in her cuts if she used the swords together, holding the hilts so close they touched, and was still obviously much more comfortable with the lighter blade but was as least attempting to attack with the bastard sword. A few times, she believed she would land a solid blow but at the last second, she was thwarted crisply by one of her mentor's quick parries. Several times, she was forced to retrieve her _Bravos _blade from the floor as she focused too much attention on the heavier steel and did not properly guard her small sword.

A few times, she came close to throwing the bastard blade in the corner so she could aggressively chase her master around the room with her preferred weapon, but she bit back her frustration and continued sparring with both blades, as her master insisted she do. The strain of the heavy steel on her left arm became apparent as they continued sparring and eventually, her strength flagged noticeably. Jaqen could read the vexation on her face and attempted to assure her.

"A girl should not worry. The strength will come, as long as you keep practicing. But a girl's arm is not the only problem."

Breathing heavily, hands pressed against her thighs as she bent over to feel the stretch of her back, she looked up at him, her expression quizzical. Seeing she did not comprehend his meaning, he bade her to return her swords to their racks as he did the same. Once this task was completed, he approached her and directed her to stand up straight. She did as her master instructed then watched with mild alarm as he balled up his fist and appeared to be aiming to punch her gut.

Jaqen placed his clenched fist firmly in the center of her belly, pressing into her even as his other hand supported her lower back and prevented her retreat from the pressure he was creating.

"This is where your strength should flow from, lovely girl," he purred, pressing deeper for emphasis. She said nothing but concentrated on the feeling of his fist pressing against her and thought about what it might mean to get strength from your gut. He moved his hands then, settling them around her arms, holding her biceps in his crushing grasp. She winced a little, feeling the aching of the muscles not yet resolved from the first day he made her spar with that damnably heavy blade.

"This is not where the strength comes from," he told her, digging his strong fingers into the muscle beneath them. "We are building strength here, to be sure, but you will never wield that sword properly unless you _feel it _in your gut."

He peered at her, gauging her understanding, and seemed satisfied that she had interpreted his meaning. Dropping his hands away from her, he continued his lesson.

"There is an intelligence to swordplay," he acknowledged, "and a man with wits will always have the advantage, all other things being equal. But a man cannot fight effectively with wits alone."

The Cat listened closely, drinking in her master's wisdom. Whenever Jaqen spoke to her like this, he always said something valuable. The look on her face was so earnest, he found it very gratifying but frustrating at the same time. If only he could get her to listen to _all_ of his advice with such interest...

He paused, dropping onto the wooden bench as she stood before him. He regarded her keenly and then narrowed his eyes slightly, purring in his way, the common tongue marked by his Lorathi accent, "_Instinct_, lovely girl. A man who has good instincts coupled with wits cannot be bested. Instinct cannot be taught, but where it is found, it can be _refined._ It can be _perfected_."

"If it can't be taught, how can I hope to improve?" the girl asked, her tone discouraged.

"Foolish girl, you _have_ all the instinct you could ever require. Your task is to learn to _heed_ it," her master announced. "And a man's task is to hone it; to shape it into a girl's third blade. If you learn this lesson well, you will be _invincible _in combat."

_Invincible_. She liked the way that sounded. A broad smile appeared on her face as she wiped the sweat from her brow with the padded sleeve of her doublet. Her mentor watched her quietly, appraising that grin of hers, thinking of all the different expressions he had seen on that flushed face in the last day alone. _So many iterations of one lovely girl_ he mused to himself. _They must all be ready, when the time comes. None may fail, or all is lost._

"What are you thinking, Jaqen?" the Cat asked him, noticing the seriousness that had descended upon his face and furrowed his brow. Smoothing his features, he turned his bronze eyes to her, not quite having the words he needed to impress upon her the importance of her obedience in the task to come. He had already obtained her promise, ("_I will do my duty, whatever is asked,"_ she had sworn to him), but still, he did not rest easy. For now, though, it would have to be enough. He would find a way to discuss this with her soon, and emphasize that he would expect her to fulfill her vow to him, but for now, he chuckled at her question, and brushed off his concern.

"A man was wondering what became of a Cat's gifts," the Lorathi lied smoothly, shrugging his shoulders.

Her expression was as close to coquettish as he had ever seen when she answered in a delighted tone, "Raff and Dunsen are resting comfortably, never fear. They are in a safe place."

"And what of a girl's _other _gifts?" her master purred, watching her face change from coquettish to sour in an instant. "A man had thought a girl might appreciate having something other than a wet linen wrap to wear the next time she manages to soak her clothes while bathing."

"I left them for the tavern wench you flirted with so shamelessly," she spat, puckering her face when he laughed loudly at that. The bloody Lorathi even went so far as to _slap his knee_! Not waiting for his laughter to die away, she turned on her heel and stalked toward the door, throwing her excuse casually over her shoulder as he continued to snort. "I'm expected by Umma."

* * *

Umma gave the Cat a hard look when she entered the kitchen. As the girl had not arrived late and was, in fact, even a bit early for her kitchen duties, she was unsure what she had done to warrant such scrutiny. When it continued for an uncomfortably long time, she finally turned to the cook and demanded to know what she meant by staring at her so brazenly.

Umma shrugged, turning back to her turnips and said, "I was just making sure you weren't wasting away. When you don't show up to eat my midday meal _or_ my supper and barely touch my breakfast, I am naturally going to worry!"

At first, the Cat felt touched, reading the cook's remarks as concern, but when she said, "Oh, don't worry, I ate my meals at an inn!" the look on Umma's face was not relief but accusation.

"An _inn_, was it? And why, pray tell, were _you_ at an inn?"

"Well," the girl started but then wasn't sure what she could say that wouldn't betray Jaqen's confidence or that wouldn't sound… _bad_. She finally settled on, "It was part of my training!"

The cook's laugh announced her disbelief and she muttered something under her breath about that sort of training being more appropriate for an apprentice of a pleasure house in Lys than for an assassin's apprentice. The Cat tried to ignore her, knowing that Umma felt a motherly affection for her, in her way, and just wanted the best for her. Also, the cook hated when food went to waste and hated even _more_ any suggestion that her cooking was not the best in all of Braavos.

The turnips were for a vegetable broth that would accompany a crabmeat and cheese pie that was one of the Cat's favorites. Of all the places in the world she could have wandered, she found herself grateful that it was Braavos the iron coin had brought her to, for she found the dishes created from the bounty of the surrounding waters to be some of the best food she had ever tasted.

They worked the rest of the time in silence but as the meal was completed and the Cat dipped her hands into a pail of clean water and then wiped them on a rag to dry them, the cook turned to her and finally spoke.

"Be careful, dear child," Umma said. "These men… They all have their own reasons for the things they do. You…"

The woman's voice trailed off and she lifted one hand to the girl's face, holding it there as she looked almost sad.

"What is it, Umma?" the girl prodded her gently, wondering what had brought this warning on.

The cook just shook her head, patting the girl on her arm in an affectionate gesture and said simply, "Mind yourself."

As the Cat left the kitchen, the cook's words had a strange effect on her. It seemed like lately everywhere she went, _someone_ was warning her about _something_. What was she to make of it all? Well, at least she felt like Umma's concerns were unfounded. Jaqen hadn't taken her to the inn for any nefarious purpose, despite all her teasing about the captain having sinister reasons for offering a widow a cup of wine. It was not obvious to her at the time, but she understood now that with everything her master needed to tell her, and the nature of much of the news, he could not have told her over honeyed chicken in a tavern or over crossed blades in the training room or while she watched the waif's unaccountably abundant bubbles die in her bath. He could not have done other than he did. He did not secret her upstairs in front of the tavern's patrons as a jape, intending to make her feel ashamed and he did not press the wine into her hand so that she would commit an indiscretion that he could hang over her head later (though she nearly had, anyway). He did those things because doing them allowed her to react the way she needed to react as she learned the things he was obligated to tell her. She recognized that all he had done was with a thought for her comfort and she shook her head, nearly ashamed at her lack of appreciation for her master.

The girl drifted into the small dining hall which was slowly filling up with her hungry brothers, and saw that Jaqen was not among the diners. She supposed he had some other business to tend to, something only masters need concern themselves with, and then noted that the rat-faced boy walked in, carrying the great tureen of vegetable broth.

"Great," she thought, "_he's_ serving. I'll have to watch him the whole time to be sure he doesn't spit in my food."

Loric entered the room just then and, seeing the Cat, his face lit up as he bounded over to take the place next to her.

"I heard the Lorathi telling the principle elder that he's training you to fight with _two _swords," the boy said by way of greeting, his breathless voice full of reverence.

The Cat frowned at that. Why were they discussing her? She thought about it a minute longer and then decided there wasn't anything _wrong_ with them discussing her. The masters surely kept the elders informed of the progress of the acolytes, but still, it made her feel funny to know they were discussing _her_.

"That right?" the girl asked rhetorically, feigning boredom.

"Yes!" he declared, not reading her cue. "The Lorathi said he thought if he was given enough time, you would be capable of slaying a dozen trained knights by yourself. All at _once_!"

That surprised her. She had assumed her mentor's enticement of being able to defeat a _roomful_ of men had been an exaggeration; a simple enticement for her to pick up the bastard sword without complaint. She tried to place herself in that scenario, picturing herself amid a room of hostile knights, armored, carrying heavy blades, she at their center with her bastard sword and _Bravos_ blade and boiled leather. Each time she envisioned it, she managed to pile up about a half-dozen bodies before one of the knights put his steel through her heart. She _knew _it must be possible for _some_ people to accomplish what her master was claiming she would be able to do-she had seen Syrio dispatch half a dozen armed men with a wooden stick, after all, but he was _Syrio,_ the first sword of Braavos_, _while she was... no one. She did not like to call up this particular memory of Syrio, as magnificent as he had been in that moment, because it inevitably led to her imagining what must have happened to him once Ser Meryn lowered his visor and entered the fray in his heavy plate. She shook off the images, diving into the steaming crab pie that had just been placed in front of her. After taking two bites, she imagined she saw a smirk on the rat-faced boy's face and cursed to herself. Loric had distracted her and she had forgotten to watch the other Westerosi among them. She glared at the boy and his smirk melted away. Satisfied, she returned to her food and ate her fill.

* * *

Her day was her own after her meal so she returned to the courtyard where she had met the Kindly Man that morning. The sun was high but the shade provided respite from the pressing heat. She walked first to the fountain and impulsively removed her boots and waded in it, something she had often thought seemed a good idea but had never witnessed anyone else attempting. The pool was not deep enough to swim, but she hopped out and leaning her chest across the low wall of the fountain's edge, she submerged her head in the cool waters, imagining the chill was the Northern wind against her cheeks. When she could hold her breath no longer, she drew back quickly, throwing an arc of water droplets high into the air then turned to watch them rain down on the dark stones of the path. She felt refreshed and thought to thank Umma for her concern with some ripe lemons from one of the trees in the garden. The highest fruits seemed the most likely (of course), so she leaned her boots against the wall behind one of the trees and began to climb up the sturdy trunk, using the dark marble bench beneath it as a step to gain purchase against the bark. When she had climbed as high as she safely could, suspecting the highest branches were not strong enough to support her weight, she stretched up on her toes and balanced on a thin branch, quite like a cat. She plucked three perfect lemons, tucking them in her doublet. From her vantage point, she could not see much of the garden because the foliage of the tree was quite thick, but it seemed to her that she could hear voices. _Damn it all_, she thought, _if I don't leap down right now and announce myself, I'll be accused of eavesdropping on conversations not meant for my ears. Again._

She prepared to do just that when she realized she recognized the voices. Once again, the Kindly Man and her master were strolling through the gardens, having a hushed conversation. She was faced with a choice and quickly decided she could tolerate being accused of suffering from an excess of curiosity but didn't know if she could tolerate not knowing what they were discussing. She stilled herself and listened intently.

"…a most useful exercise," her master was saying. "A man recalls that when he himself was a young acolyte, his master instructed him much in the same way."

"Be that as it may," the Kindly Man retorted, "there was a most _unfortunate_ consequence."

"But this is exactly why a man must be kept _informed_. This could all have been avoided if a man's brother had only…"

"Certainly," the Kindly Man cut him off, his voice growing louder to the Cat's ear. They must be very near now, though she still could not see them. "But you have your duties, and they keep you most _engaged_. I sometimes must make these decisions quickly. It is my duty to decide when and where to move the pieces so that our plans will have the utmost chance of success. That does not always allow me time to keep _you_ informed of every tiny decision as they happen."

"Is this a _tiny _decision?" Jaqen queried, sounding doubtful. The Cat's heart nearly stopped. The men had moved into view and they were almost directly below her. She held her breath, a slow terror crawling up her back as she watched the Kindly Man take a seat on the very same bench she had used to boost herself into the tree!

The Kindly Man gave her master a look but she could not see it from her position looking down on the top of his head. She commanded every muscle in her body to be still, frozen, and made her breaths shallow and silent, willing the men to _just not look up._ She admonished herself to remember Syrio's lessons. _Quiet as a shadow._

"You do not understand all that is at stake, brother," the Kindly Man told Jaqen, almost coldly.

"So a man's brother keeps saying. Perhaps if you _explained_ it…"

The Kindly Man held up his hand to stop her master from speaking.

"You need not trouble yourself, brother," the Kindly Man said, his voice not sounding exceedingly _kind_ to the Cat's ear. "These matters are well in hand."

Ignoring the warning in the principle elder's manner and tone, the Lorathi persisted, observing, "It seems to a man that his brother has already determined the outcome of her trial. A man believes she will do what is required of her and this will eliminate the need for all of these alternate plans."

_Do what is required? _the girl puzzled. _This must be what he meant yesterday, when he said I needed to do whatever it was I was asked._

"Of course, of course," the Kindly Man said patronizingly. "I have faith just the same as you do, brother, but in my position, I can ill afford to leave the order unprepared for _any_ outcome, no matter how unlikely it may seem. To _both_ of us."

Jaqen nodded his understanding, seeming to relax. He turned and sat next to his brother on the bench, hiding his countenance from the Cat. Now, she could just see the tops of both men's heads and shoulders, their thighs jutting forth from the seat.

"I must warn you, though," the Kindly Man added softly, "this thing will not be easy. I know you will have your apprentice as ready as can reasonably be expected, but still, you should prepare yourself for failure. Just in case."

Her master turned to face the Kindly Man, saying, "A man would know what is to be expected from the girl."

The Kindly Man chuckled, shaking his head, replying, "Come now, brother. That's hardly proper. Tell me, did _your_ master know what would be required of _you_ before you entered the final trial?"

"A man does not know. Did you, master?"

The principle elder clapped Jaqen fondly on his shoulder, and told him, "Worry is an offense to the Many-Faced god. Relieve your mind, brother. All will be well, I promise you. Still, maybe it would have been easier for you if I had just sent you to Pentos..."

"No, you were right to allow a man to stay. No disrespect was meant, brother. I strive only to serve."

"I know you do. Truly, I do," the elder replied sincerely, then paused, seeming to consider something. "Brother, why do you allow the girl to call you _Jaqen_?"

The Cat's mentor answered simply, "A man must be called something. It is a matter of simplicity. Merely a convenience." As he spoke, he shrugged casually and though girl could not see his face, she knew at _once_ he was lying. All these years, she had been looking for any sign he gave that he was not being truthful and it had been right there, before her eyes the whole time. It must have registered with her _somewhere_ to be able to note it now, but as he spoke his words to the Kindly Man, they screamed to her of their falsehood. _What a strange thing to lie about, _she thought. There, watching him from high above, she held her breath and her eyes grew wide as she waited for the elder to call out his brother's deception.

But he did not.

The Kindly Man accepted Jaqen's explanation without question and the two men stood, facing each other as they prepared to depart the garden, murmuring the sort of things the brothers of the house said to one another when they parted company. Things like, "Go and serve" and "Valar morghulis." Relief flooded through the girl and she thanked the old gods and the new and the Red god and the Many-Faced god and the Drowned god and all the rest that her perch had not been discovered. The elder left first, his brother watching him as he departed. The Cat wondered what kept her master but before she could determine the reason for his delayed departure, she felt her thick, sodden braid slowly slip over her shoulder and fall straight down, swaying slightly. It was as if all the gods she had only just thanked were mocking her, completely oblivious to her attentions. The occurrence was silent but a drop of water which had gathered at the tip of her bound hair and was barely clinging to it suddenly released with the movement and followed a traitorous path straight down to the bench from which her master had just risen.

It was a tiny drop with an almost invisible movement and a silent landing, but he noticed it anyway. _Of course he did._ The droplet hit the dark stone of the bench and splattered fractionally. Her master looked at the trifling spot of wetness on the bench, no larger than half the size of her smallest fingertip, and dropped his shoulders, sighing. He bowed his head for a long moment and whether it was in prayer or in dismay, she could not say. Without looking up at her (though she _knew_ he knew she was present), he departed wordlessly.

The girl did not leave her perch in the lemon tree for a long time. She didn't want to risk running into Jaqen until she had figured out what she would say to him; what she would _ask_ him. She needed to think, and the sturdy branches of the lemon tree seemed as good a place as any to consider her many troubling thoughts. But she found when she tried to consider the words that the Kindly Man and her master had exchanged, they became tangled and mixed up with the previous conversation she had accidentally overheard and also with some of the many things Jaqen had told her over the last few days. She was frustrated with her own inability to link each of the mysteries and clues together to form a coherent picture and finally climbed to the lower branches and dropped down, landing lightly on her feet at the base of the tree. She found her boots tucked neatly between a tree and the wall of the courtyard, slipped them on, and then headed for the kitchen to deliver Umma's lemons to her. She figured of anywhere in the house, the place she was _least_ likely to find her master was in the kitchen.

She found Umma busily prepping the supper (seafood stew was being assembled in a large pot and there was dark bread baking), and offered her the lemons from her doublet. Two of her brothers were helping Umma, shelling the various seafood ingredients, and she noted out loud that whenever she was sent to the kitchen, she was always sent alone, never with one of her brothers.

"That's because you're faster than these useless fools!" Umma declared, striking one on the head lightly with a wooden spoon. The boy cringed but the Cat knew that Umma was just being Umma and didn't mean any real harm. "Thank you for the lemons, little Cat. Shall we have lemon cakes, then?"

The cook smiled fondly at her but the girl heard "lemon cakes" and her mind went instantly to her sister. After all this time, she couldn't enjoy a bloody sweet without wondering what had happened to Sansa.

"Don't trouble yourself, Umma," the girl said. "You've already planned your supper. Maybe some lemon curd for the bread tomorrow?"

"A fine idea," the cook declared. "Lemon curd on biscuits. Just be sure you show up for breakfast this time. Don't miss my lemon curd to eat that swill they serve in the inns down by the docks."

The girl didn't bother telling the cook that the food had actually been rather delicious. She just smiled and nodded, congratulating herself on her diplomacy, then left to slink through the halls, listening for her master's voice and trying to remain unseen. She found her way to the range room and spent the next few hours alone, punishing the targets for her grievances.

As supper time approached, she nervously realized that she had two choices: attend the meal and face her master, or hide in her cell and starve. As she left the range room, she started to head toward her cell but remembered the cook's seafood stew (_and_ her very recent lecture about missing meals) and stopped in her tracks, sighing. _Umma's seafood stew is worth a lot of trouble_ she thought, then turned on her heel and marched resolutely to the large dining hall. The room was crowded when she arrived, but much to her surprise and relief, her master was not present. Feeling that she had been dealt a bit of luck, she ate heartily of the dinner, even having a second helping of the stew. The conversation in the hall was lively, almost counting as raucous for the usually subdued members of the order. A good natured argument broke out over the efficacy of half-strength poisons, and the Cat listened with amusement. The hour grew late and finally, the diners began to drift out of the hall, bound for their beds. The girl followed suit, finding some comfort in moving with the crowd. She need not have worried, as her master was nowhere to be seen. She had received a temporary reprieve and could think on how to discuss the incident in the courtyard with him another day.

She opened the door to her cell, reaching through the doorway to the table that sat on the other side of it, meaning to grab the candle she kept in that spot so that she might light it from the torch mounted on the wall only a few steps down the hallway. She felt around the tabletop but did not find the candle. Sighing, she threw the door open wider, letting a little of the torchlight penetrate her room, and stepped over the threshold, hoping she could see if perhaps the candle had rolled onto the floor. As she was staring hard at the deeply shadowed area beneath the simple table, she heard her master's low voice from the far corner of her cell, his tone soft and dangerous.

"Close the door."


	23. Chapter 23

**A/N: I thought about putting a warning for violence on this chapter, for the faint of heart, and then I thought, "If people are faint of heart, they don't read this series anyway" and also "GRRM never puts warning labels on _his_ writing" and so decided against it. So, no warning labels! Except that me explaining this is sort of a _de facto_ warning label. So... no more warning labels in the future. BAH! Also, since I'm already interrupting the flow of the story with an AN, I'll go ahead and say that I had planned to post this chapter last night but I just wasn't satisfied that I had tweaked it enough so I waited to be able to go through it again this morning so that I could get it *just* the way I wanted it. That's my excuse to salve the disgruntlement anyone might feel that it wasn't up before now. Yes, it was a tiny bit delayed, but it's _new and_ _improved _and probably 400 words longer. =)**

* * *

The girl hesitated at the door, which she knew would just vex her master further, but she couldn't help it. Rule her face, rule her actions, lie like it was second nature—all these she could do easily. But suppress her survival instinct? That was much harder for her and right now, that instinct was screaming at her to _run._ Part of her argued that Jaqen had never hurt her, not _really, _and so to fear him (and try to run) was ridiculous. Another part of her, the little voice that had been haranguing her lately, argued that she had never before willfully defied him by doing the _opposite _of something he had made a particular point of instructing her to do.

She settled on an action that she viewed as something of a compromise. Obedience with a codicil, which was becoming something of a defining trait for her. She closed the door, but as she did so, she endeavored feverishly to explain herself to her master, hidden in the dark of the cell.

"It wasn't my fault, Jaqen," she began quickly, he words tumbling out of her mouth as she softly closed the door to her chamber. "I was climbing that tree to get lemons for Umma and the next thing I knew…"

"Be silent," he hissed, sounding much closer in the dark than he ought to. She was still working out where in the small room she could retreat for safety until she could make him understand that it hadn't _really _been her fault when she suddenly found herself thrown against the door, spine pressing into the unforgiving wood, unable to move. She would have marveled at his quickness as he gripped both of her wrists in one of his hands, pinning them against the door above her head, but she was too distracted by the cold blade pressing hard against the side of her neck.

She held very still, not daring even a small flinch, feeling his breath on her face, hearing his angry heaving, and waiting for him to say something; _do_ something.

Long moments passed with them standing in this way, face to face, but not seeing each other in the enveloping darkness of the chamber. Slowly, she felt him shift, his hair brushing her face, his scent drifting over her, all spice and citrus, making her unexpectedly dizzy. She suddenly felt his lips brushing her ear and her mouth went very dry. A sensation gripped her gut, a pressure deeper than the one the Lorathi had created with his fist in the training room, as his warm breath caressed her earlobe, his nose grazing the delicate skin over her jaw. The feeling would have almost been _pleasant, _but she could not reconcile the gentle gesture with the dagger digging into her neck. He gave a low, quiet growl and she felt it as much as heard it as he pressed his cheek to hers, and then she heard him inhale near her ear before he spoke.

"If a man presses just a little harder _here_," he began coldly, his voice just above the level of a whisper, pushing the point of his dagger into the tender spot on the side of her neck where her pulse was strongest, "and opened this vessel, how long would a girl live?"

She inhaled raggedly, trying and failing to remain calm and keep her breathing steady. When she did not answer him, he pressed the knife slightly harder against her flesh, the tiny movement a threat she could not ignore.

"A man asked a question," he said quietly, his voice hard.

"Um… A.. min… minute. No, l-less than a m-minute," she stuttered, her concentration eluding her, a condition brought on by the blade at her throat and her master's radiating menace. Her mind seemed fractured at the moment, part of her living in dread of what he might be planning to do, part of her working out how she might slip from his grasp and escape, part of her trying to focus on his questioning as if it were some Faceless examination she needed to pass, and part of her… _in awe_ of him doing what he _did_: being a terrifying assassin. She admired this man, the same way Loric admired her. And more than anything, she just wanted to _be_ him.

But first, she had to not get murdered right here in her bedchamber.

"Less than a minute," her master mused. "Just so."

She was relieved to feel the blade leave her throat though her master still held her arms firmly above her head, her knuckles scraping the wooden planks of the doors. Suddenly, she felt him pressing something hard and dull against her cheek, dragging it slowly up her face until it came to rest under her eye. She squeezed her lids shut tightly just as she felt the shift of the pressure, and then it was over her left eyelid. It felt as if he was pushing the tip of his dagger hilt against her eye.

"And if a man pushed his blade through a girl's beautiful grey eye, right _here," _he emphasized, rocking the butt of the dagger slightly against her, "how long would she live then?"

She breathed a few shallow breaths and then felt the knife butt press harder, causing her to see stars behind her lid, despite the complete blackness of the cell. Her voice started quietly, but ended in her crying the answer out as he pressed harder.

"It… it depends… It depends on how deeply you plunge the knife!"

"Let us assume a man _buries _the dagger to its hilt," he murmured in her ear, his tone sounding more appropriate for seduction than threats, "and then _twists_ it." For a mad instant, she wondered if in their world, seduction and threats might have a common purpose.

"Then death would occur almost instantly," she responded, swallowing hard as she felt him pull the hilt away from her eye. She could feel what seemed to be three of his fingers and the hilt of the dagger tracing a slow path down her neck to her collarbone. He must have changed his grip on the dagger then because almost immediately, she felt the pinch of the knifepoint through the thick cloth of her quilted doublet, sitting just behind the bone, at about the midpoint.

"And if a man plunges this blade straight down here?" he quizzed.

"You'd likely hit the artery _and_ puncture the lung," she whispered, calmer now, remembering her anatomy lessons with less trouble. "Maybe… two minutes? Possibly less if the tear in the artery was large."

"Likely less than two," he agreed, removing the dagger from its threatening position. The next thing she felt was a choking pressure at her throat as his free hand wrapped tightly around her windpipe, squeezing.

She gasped painfully, able to breathe still, but only just.

"And if a man decided to crush a girl's throat, how long would she have left to defy him?"

"Three minutes," she rasped painfully, "depending on how hard you were squeezing."

"But a lovely girl's throat is so small, and a man's hands are strong," he observed.

"I can hold my breath for a really long time," she croaked in explanation for her response.

He laughed and it was a short, cold sound, and then loosened his grip on her throat but continued to rest his hand there, fingers gently stroking the soft skin he had just been crushing. She remained very, very still but then felt herself start to tremble and cursed inwardly. _Stillness_, she reminded herself. _Calm as still water._

"Does a girl wish for a man to open her neck?" he finally murmured, his lips now hovering just above the top of her head. She felt his chin brushing against her hair.

"No, of course not!" she answered him with a cough, aghast. An elite assassin did not jape about death. _This is no matter for japing_ she recalled, hearing his voice in her head, almost laughing wildly. She drew in a ragged breath to calm herself again. _Stillness._

"Perhaps it would be easier if a man crushed your throat and drove the breath out of you," he ruminated. The pressing blackness was playing on her eyes and her mind now, and she began to feel light-headed, though, in truth, she wasn't sure if it was really the darkness that was to blame or her own rapid pulse and spiking adrenaline.

"No! Jaqen, why are you saying these things?"

"A girl insists on interfering with matters she does not understand. The Many-Faced god is not a god for trifling."

"What? I know that, Jaq…"

He interrupted her, his voice a quiet lament, saying, "You do _not _know this, foolish girl. You continually engage in behavior that is nothing short of suicidal. If a girl desires the gift so eagerly, a man would have the thing done by his own hand rather than another's."

He held his hand over her throat for another few seconds and then suddenly, his fingers were digging deeper into the soft flesh, as if he really meant to do it. She drew in one last breath, unsure if she intended to use it to scream or to beg but then, without a word, he released both her neck and hands. She took several loud, gulping breaths, using her newly freed hands to rub at the small, shallow puncture wound of her neck caused by the knifepoint and to tenderly touch the places that she thought were like to show bruises from Jaqen's fingers tomorrow. While she was still inspecting her injured neck with her fingertips, she felt Jaqen's hands slide up to either side of her face and then he bowed his head, pressing his forehead hard against hers. She could feel the furrow of his brow against her own, his worry becoming her worry. She imagined him with his eyes clenched tightly shut, as if willing a headache to go away. She supposed _she_ was his headache.

He remained that way for so long and she suddenly felt as if she should comfort _him_ somehow. She reached out and placed her palms against his chest lightly. When she did this, he dropped his hands from her face and encircled her in his arms, holding her very close, his head still bent, his forehead still pressing against hers. Her hands were trapped in the small space that existed between their bodies but she did not seek to move them, feeling the beating of his heart and the deep movement of his chest as he breathed. She thought she should say something, but she wasn't sure what the right thing to say was just then, so she waited quietly for her master to speak again. When he finally did, his voice carried the sound of disappointment and sorrow. And something else.

"Reckless, willful, _selfish_ girl," he whispered, and he sounded _angry._ He sounded…_ hurt_.

And he sounded _scared. T__hat_ terrified her more than his dagger ever could.

"I'm sorry, Jaqen," she mumbled sadly. "I didn't mean any harm by it."

"A girl never _means_ harm. Of that, a man is certain."

He abruptly released her and she nearly stumbled with the suddenness of his departure. After a short moment, she heard a familiar hissing and faint crackling sound and then the cell suddenly became visible. Jaqen had lit her candle, the missing candle, and the chamber was bathed in all the sullen little glow that one small candle could provide.

"Sit," he told her and she crossed the small space to her bed and dropped onto it, swinging her legs across its narrow width so that they then hung over the opposite side, her back to her door, her face turned toward her master.

He sat on the only other piece of furniture in the room besides the bed and simple table. It was a chair of the same make as the one in the bath chamber, simple, wooden, and unpadded.

"No more," he told her simply, shaking his head almost imperceptibly.

"But Jaqen, I really didn't mean…" she started, but then her voice trailed off, because though they _had _surprised her in the garden (again), she really _did_ mean to listen in on their conversation. She had consciously chosen to disobey him.

"Perhaps a man has not been clear enough. He sometimes forgets how young a girl is."

The girl wrinkled her nose at him and glared, misliking, as ever, being told she was a child and that _this_ was the reason for… _anything._

"But in this instance, it matters not how young you are," he continued. "Your youth will not save you. It will not be an excuse. It will garner no sympathy."

Her glare evaporated from her face and she cocked her head, looking at him questioningly.

"A girl _knows_, though she should _not_, that her time is short. One way or another, this thing will happen."

_The final trial_ she thought, her heart skipping a bit so that it seemed as if there were a bird in her chest, fluttering his great wings.

"A man would have you survive until the appointed time, but this wish seems more and more foolhardy with each passing day."

"I don't understand."

His words were biting and quick, like the strike of a poisonous snake, as he spat, "_Stupid girl_, who do you think your _Kindly Man_ is? Do you think he is a man who will tolerate your disobedience? Do you think he is a man who would welcome _Arya Stark_ into the order? Do you think he is a man who would _hesitate_, even for a moment, to eliminate any threat to his plans?"

Jaqen shook his head, closing his eyes and scrubbing at his face with his hands, finally running them through his hair. She watched as the candlelight turned his pale forelock gold.

"I'm not _Arya Stark_," she replied weakly, sounding a little desperate. "I'm _no one."_

Her master laughed at her then, a bitter, clipped sound, before he told her, "If that were true, we would both be sleeping right now." He looked at her and his face was grim, his eyes solemn as he willed her to understand. "The principle elder is not _charmed_ by your defiance. He will not _forgive _your rebellion. He has no _use_ for your provocations. What does a girl suppose will happen to her once her _Kindly Man_ has no use for her?"

The girl dropped her head, staring hard at her feet. His words felt ominous. She sensed his inexorable gaze upon her and looked up at his face, struggling to discover the thing that she could say that would make it alright. Finding nothing, she remained silent.

"_Arya Stark_ does whatever she pleases," her master said with distaste. "_Arya Stark_ cares nothing for consequences. _Arya Stark_ is reckless."

"_Arya Stark_ was given a gift by her master," she reminded him meekly but it was almost an accusation; a reminder that in this matter, she was not the only one who was culpable.

"Yes, but a man had believed a girl had the wits to leave _Arya Stark_ at the inn, or at least enough sense not parade her into the House of Black and White through the front doors!" he spat.

She wanted to tell him that in reality, she had come over the courtyard wall, but she knew that this would be a bad idea. A very, very bad idea, and so she said nothing and had the good judgment to look shamed. Her master fell silent and turned away from her, as if the very sight of her made him angry and he could not bear to look upon her face. She stared at him, studying his expression, trying to decide if it was pained or livid, and then she saw the three raking scratches at his neck and felt worse than ever.

She dropped to the floor before him, leaning her cheek against his knee as she clasped her slender fingers around either side of his calf. After a moment, she felt his fingers slipping into her hair, weaving the loose strands between them, his hand resting atop her head.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm _sorry_," she whispered, each word spoken as gently and sincerely as a mother's kiss upon her babe's brow.

She heard him sigh and then he responded in a tired voice, "A man would have your obedience, not your apologies."

She pulled her cheek from his knee and as his hand dropped away from her head, she turned her shining eyes upon his and said, "You have both."

He surveyed her face, examining her expression and appraising her eyes. He felt the truth of her words and knew she meant them. He pressed his concern, seeking to remind her of her vow to him, made only one day prior.

"And does a girl remember the promise she made to a man yesterday?"

There had been several. She ticked them off in her head, trying to land on the one he wanted her to remember. _I will not weep again. I will never drink wine again. You can tell me anything, I promise I will not run away in the night. I will do my duty, whatever is asked._

"I promised to do my duty," she said, seizing on the correct answer.

"_Whatever_ is asked," he reminded her.

"Yes, whatever is asked," she agreed.

He stood and so did she. They faced each other, so close that it seemed his breath robbed her of her very air. She took a half step back, feeling colder as she did. Haltingly, she raised her hand, biting her lip without thinking as she allowed her fingertips to trace the scratches along his neck to where they met his collarbone. They were thin, grooved ribbons of dried blood.

"It looks better today," she murmured, "but it's like to scar."

Her master gave her a wry smile and said, "A lasting reminder of a man's little Cat, then." He grasped her hand, pressing it to his wound for a moment, feeling the soothing touch of her cool palm before he pushed it away.

And then he was gone.

It wasn't until she drew back the soft blanket from her bed to settle herself in it that she saw the wispy sleeping gown and deep purple robe folded neatly next to her pillow.

* * *

The Cat awoke early the next morning, before the sunrise, and quickly dressed in her doublet and breeches, just as she had the day before. She anticipated that she would be sparring again after breakfast and before her temple duties which were set to begin after the midday meal. She frowned at the gown and robe that she had placed in her chair, unsure what to do with them. Finally, she hid them under her pillow and then pulled her blanket over _that_. Not content to wait in her room until it was time to break her fast with her brothers, she instead bounded off toward the kitchen, thinking to snatch a biscuit as soon as it was baked. She found Umma there alone and greeted her.

"Did you make someone angry, girl?" the cook asked her.

_Who _hadn't_ she made angry, lately? Maybe Loric…_ she thought but wasn't sure what the cook meant and asked, "What are you talking about?"

"Your neck," the woman observed. "It looks as if someone tried to choke the life out of you."

The Cat's hands moved reflexively to her neck and she cursed her own pale skin and her tendency to bruise. She had thought that the high neck of her doublet had concealed her bruising but apparently, something was still visible above her collar.

"Strangling lessons," the girl remarked lightly. "Are the biscuits ready?"

"Humph," Umma snorted, not distracted by the talk of biscuits, but she said no more about the bruises and told the girl, "Hold on, impatient girl, they're nearly done. And I made that lemon curd you asked for last night. It's on the shelf, over there."

She indicated a small bowl, covered over with a clean rag, and the Cat reached over and pulled it down, removing the cloth and seeing the pale yellow stuff mounded in the dish.

"I'm glad I'm up early, this doesn't look like it will last long," the girl declared, dipping her finger into the bowl and scooping out a taste. It was sweet and sour all at once on her tongue, a combination of flavors she adored, finding it much more satisfying than the honey with which her later-rising brothers would have to content themselves.

Umma gave her a brisk swat on her hand, causing the girl to cry, "Ow!" though it was mostly for the cook's benefit.

"Wait for the biscuits," the woman reproved the girl, almost smiling. The Cat knew that Umma delighted in her appreciation of the cook's dishes.

Soon, the biscuits were ready and the girl grabbed one from the hot tray, juggling it in her hands to keep from burning her fingers until it was cool enough to hold. She slathered on a thick layer of the gooey curd and took a bite, getting a smear of the stuff on her chin. Umma groused at her but the girl laughed and just wiped it off with her fingers and set about sucking on them. By the time breakfast was actually ready, her belly was full and so she passed the small dining hall and nearly went to the courtyard, but thought the better of it and veered away from the rear exit, heading then to the range room. She thought she might throw some knives at the targets. _Target practice is much safer than a walk in the garden these days_ she thought. On the way, she crossed paths with the waif, likely on her way to break her fast.

"Valar morghulis," the tiny woman said, inclining her head to the Cat.

"Valar dohaeris," the girl replied respectfully.

"I am going to a council meeting," the waif told her in High Valyrian.

"You lie," the girl replied, "you are going to breakfast."

"Just so," the waif agreed. "After breakfast, there will be a council meeting."

"This is the truth," the girl noted, and then was suddenly gripped with anxiety. _Were they going to discuss her?_ But then she brushed the feeling away quickly, telling herself not to be so paranoid. Later, she would find herself wondering why the waif had mentioned it at all.

The small woman swept past the Cat gracefully and the girl continued to her destination, finding the room empty as she knew it would be at this hour. She grasped an assassin's belt from a peg on the wall, heavy with the sharp steel blades which weren't as fine as her own, but were adequate for practice. As she threw her knives in rapid succession at each of three targets, she repeated a cadence in her head, over and over.

_Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei. Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn Queen Cersei._

After her fingertips began to feel raw from the constant handling of the blades, she replaced the weapons on their peg and left the room, thinking she might swing her swords a bit and loosen up before Jaqen arrived in the training room to spar with her (_after the council meeting_ she supposed). She was surprised to see him in the long passageway as she headed toward her new destination.

"A man was looking for a lovely girl," he greeted as he approached her. "He expected to find her in the training room when he did not see her at breakfast."

"I was throwing some knives," she explained.

"Skewering _Queen Cersei_, no doubt," he retorted, his voice teasing but the mirth did not rise to his eyes. He reached out his fingertips and touched her neck softly above her collar, looking at the bruised skin there. "A man has duties just now."

"The council meeting," she finished for him.

He shook his head at her and sighed, saying, "Perhaps a man should make you his steward rather than his apprentice. You seem ever aware of his schedule."

"I ran into the waif," she pouted defensively. "It's not as if I overheard it while hanging from a lemon tree."

His look was murderous and the hand at her neck moved to grasp her chin firmly, forcing it up as he leaned his face very, very close to hers. His whisper was so quiet, she had to strain her ears to hear him.

"We do not speak of this thing," he warned. "_Especially_ in the passageways of the temple."

She swallowed hard and nodded. Her mentor released her chin

"Until a man returns, you may spar with your brothers."

"There are others in the training room?" she asked him, backing away slightly and leaning against the cool stone wall.

"The large bear and the Westerosi," he informed her. "It will do a girl good to try her dual-blade technique on opponents with styles different than a man's."

She groaned, drawing a sharp look from her master.

"It's just that… they _hate_ me," she explained.

"Good," he told her, showing no concern. When she pinched her face, looking at him in confusion, he said, "In the future, does a girl only plan to fight to the death with people who love her?"

She sighed, seeing his point, but she wasn't so sure he just didn't want her to take a beating. Her master left her and she watched him walk down the hallway with his Lorathi swagger, his thumb hooked in his sword belt, and it seemed to her that he had a little extra bounce in his step. _Yes, he definitely wanted her to take a beating. _Steeling herself with a few deep breaths, she stalked to the training room door and pushed through it.

Jaqen had right of it; two of her brothers were already there, wrangling with large, blunted greatswords. She watched them for a while as they sparred, finding their moves familiar. They seemed to have gotten stronger through their years of training, but they had not gotten much smarter. Her master's words, spoken in this very room the day before, came back to her and she realized that her brothers were using strength alone against each other, forgetting that_ there is an intelligence to swordplay_. They stood in the center of the room, taking great, hacking swings at one another, seeming intent on crushing each other's skulls. She snorted at that, shaking her head at their ungainly attacks, wondering why more of her brothers did not embrace the water dancer's style, with its grace and finesse. The greatsword certainly had reach, and there was a weight behind the blows that, when properly dealt, was impressive, but if one had the quickness and a mastery of the slender _Bravos_ blade, there really was no contest, as far as she was concerned. It was like asking a sluggish bear to battle a pit viper.

Her brothers stopped when they heard her derisive noises and offered sarcastically to spar with her and her little _twig_ of a sword instead, their courage obviously bolstered by the fact that they were two and there to egg each other on, but also by the fact that she was not wearing an assassin's belt and had no throwing blades handy.

She shrugged, her face uninterested, and said, "I have a few minutes to spare, since my master is otherwise occupied."

She grabbed the blades she would be expected to use from the rack and turned to face the boy who had beaten her in the training tourney. He stepped back, allowing his smaller brother, the rat-faced boy, the first round against the smug little Cat, laughing when he saw her holding that long bastard sword _and_ the narrow _Bravos_ blade.

"Look, she must be scared if she thinks she needs two swords to beat us," the large bear of a boy commented sarcastically. "Or maybe she thinks she's too good to use just _one_ sword."

"Starks think that they're too good for _everything,_" the rat-faced boy spat nastily before he leapt toward her with a great, swooping swing of his large blade. His arms hardly looked strong enough to wield it properly, the Cat thought, but though he was small, he was wiry and had ropes of muscle straining in his arms. His arms were working hard to move the sword but they were doing it nonetheless.

He hacked at her as he had been hacking at their brother, heavy swings that wouldn't open any wounds due to the dull edge but would possibly break a bone and definitely smash a nose if they connected. She simply slid side to side as he tried to crash his blows down upon her head, deftly avoiding his swings. _He's wielding that thing like an axe_, she thought with amusement. Trying out the muscles in her arms, finding them still sore but serviceable, she smacked his two shoulders, first with her smaller blade, then with her larger. He made a face at her, signaling his dislike.

She paid his contempt no mind, focusing instead of what Jaqen had said to her yesterday, and trying to feel in her gut what she should do next, attempting to tap into her instinct as they danced around the room. She allowed him to chase her a bit with his heavy sword, thinking to tire him out, ever able to avoid his cuts and blows with her graceful movements as she heard Syrio chanting in her head. _Swift as a deer. Quick as a snake._ Then she heard, _fierce as a wolverine_ and it was _she_ who was chasing _him_.

The boy's beady eyes widened, as much as they were able to, and he seemed surprised by her attack. She thought him foolish (and _a man with wits will always have the advantage)_, as he had seen her spar many times, had sparred _with_ her, but then she realized the bastard blade was new and he had thought it would be a great advantage to _him_. She set out to show him differently. She could have disarmed him half a dozen times in this space, forcing him to yield, but she was enjoying his panicked look and their brother's disbelieving comments and attempts to encourage the rat-faced boy, and so she held back, _just enough_, and just for a time.

The Cat knew much of the boy's talent in swordplay lay in his acrobatic abilities. She had studied his tumbling and leaping passes at length, usually unbeknownst to him, so she was ready when he dove toward the floor to avoid what was actually one of the feints she used to draw him in. The boy tucked gracefully into an impossibly tight ball, making one complete rotation in the air before he landed crouched on the floor before her. Had she the time, she would have admired the beauty of his movements, but as it was, he was making one great swing around her, meaning to knock her knees out from under her from behind and lay her out flat.

As if it were all part of a choreographed dance, the girl hopped straight up into the air, bending her knees, the toes of her boots just skimming the edge of the greatsword as it passed beneath her. The rat-faced boy had not anticipated her move as she had anticipated his and he recklessly threw his sword back in a horizontal arc opposite of the one it had just flown, hoping to catch her on the backswing. His blow was too late and missed her as she jumped again. While leaping, she crossed her two swords high above, making a perfect steel _X_ over her head without thinking. As she landed before the still-crouched boy, she dropped the _X_ of her blades so that it was in a position mirroring the one it had occupied in the air, blade-tips now pricking at the ground, the boy's wrists trapped just beneath that point where her swords kissed one another. He was grasping the hilt of his own steel tightly, eyes glaring daggers at the girl as he tried to work out his best option, but she was too fast for him. His wrists sat at the invisible joint of her blades the same way a sheet of velvet might slide to the pivot point of a great pair of shears before the tool closed and sharp blades severed the material from itself. The Cat swiftly threw her arms out wide, as if ready to embrace the whole world. This created one long line across her body, from fingertip to fingertip (and sword-tip to sword-tip), wrenching the boy's wrists painfully in the rapidly changing vise of her blades and his steel clattered loudly as he dropped it with a piercing cry. She had a fleeting thought that if the blades were not blunted, the rat-faced boy would have just lost both hands.

Her moves were instinctive. She had no time to stop and ponder them, making no decisions, all reaction in her motions, using her wits instead to read her opponent. _Opponents. _She ducked just in time to avoid a vicious blow leveled at her ear by the lumbering bear who had beaten her before. _What lessons were learned from that defeat? He is tireless and meeting his steel with mine only rattles my bones until they are too tired to obey my commands _she recalled, hopping upright and twirling around him on one foot so that she was now at his back. As he spun laboriously around to face her, she recalled one other important thing she had learned. _He is slow. Very, very slow._

He lifted his heavy blade high above his head, meaning to send it crashing down atop her skull, but she used the end of her _Bravos_ blade to give him a sharp rap on the tip of his nose (_quick as a snake)_ and then danced out of his reach before he could respond. Blood began pouring from his nose and over his lips, now pulled back in a dangerous snarl. She laughed mercilessly and shook her head as his greatsword took its originally intended path and sliced the air where she had been standing, striking the floor with a loud, metallic chirp. _So very slow._

_"_Stand still and _fight_," the hulking lad commanded, heaving his sword once again over his head, aiming to send an angled blow down upon her hip. She took three almost tip-toeing steps to the side, easily avoiding his grunting blow, and laughed again.

"Why would I stand still, Ser Speed?" she japed. "I am but a young maid and so very fond of _dancing!_"

She glanced quickly at the rat-faced boy to make sure he hadn't retrieved his blade, planning to aid his brother, but he still sat sullenly upon the floor, nursing his injured wrists, the swelling in them already apparent. She had wrenched them powerfully—it was possible that they were broken. She spared no pity for him and instead spun once again around the bear, so fast she was merely a blur to his eyes, and brought both swords to the soft spot behind his knees, swinging them together as one might swing an axe meant to fell a thick tree. With a stifled, "Oomph!" the boy did fall, though exactly like the large, lumbering boy he was rather than like a tree, knees striking hard against the ground. Before he could react, she had plastered herself to his broad back, trapping his neck between her swords, bastard blade pressed firmly against his throat while the narrow _Bravos _blade caressed the nape of his neck. If the blades had not been blunted, she could have removed his head as easily as a child could pull the wings from a fly.

"Yield," she said softly, her irresistible command delivered as a whisper in the boy's ear. She had very recently been reminded that sometimes, a whispered demand could be infinitely more terrifying than one delivered with a roar, and there was power in the fear of others.

"I yield," the bear said without hesitation. When she released him, he stood and turned to look at her with wonder.

"When did you start training with two swords?" he wanted to know, eyeing her with what looked like respect even as he wiped the blood from his nose and lips onto his sleeve. Respect was not something she was used to seeing in the eyes of her brothers and it felt different than the disdain and the fear she was more accustomed to getting.

"A few days ago," she replied nonchalantly.

"_A few days_…" he cried, astonished.

She shrugged, thinking but not saying that it was likely she had beaten the boys as much due to their lack of skill as her abundance of it.

Before he could say more, the rat-faced boy called to his brother, demanding to be taken to the waif to receive some relief for his injuries. The Cat rolled her eyes at him but said nothing as the large boy helped his fellow from the ground and supported him as he limped toward the door of the training room. _Why is he limping?_ the Cat thought. _I didn't touch his ankles. _As the bear allowed the rat-faced boy to pass through the door first, he turned back to look at his sister, a small smile creasing his wide face.

"Hey, Cat, do you think you could show _me_ how to fight with two swords?" he asked.

She cocked her head at him in surprise, but then nodded. He bowed his head to her in appreciation and then left to follow the rat-face boy down the hall, in search of some concoction or another to dull the pain of his swollen wrists. Not even a minute after the boys left, her master entered the room, a questioning look displayed on his face.

"What happened to your brothers?" he queried, having seen the large boy with blood smeared on his face and the Westerosi boy favoring his wrists as they retreated down the passageway.

"A simple misunderstanding," she sniffed.

"A _misunderstanding?_" her mentor pressed, crossing his arms and looking at her as she took a few swipes at the air with her swords, loosening up her arms.

"_Just so_," she replied, imitating his lilting Lorathi accent. "They _misunderstood_ that I am better with a sword than they are. Or rather, with _two_ swords."

Her master shook his head, but said nothing as he selected his customary longsword from the wall and asked his apprentice if she was ready to begin.

She answered him by sliding into her stance and saying, "A young maid is so _very _fond of dancing."


	24. Chapter 24

The Cat was surprisingly tireless during her sparring session with her master. The ache in her muscles had diminished from a degree of pain that inspired wretched screaming and wishing for death to a pleasant sensation of the pulling and stretching of her muscles as she dodged, parried, and thrust her way around the training room. She found she was able to move and control the bastard sword much better than she had the last few times she had sparred with Jaqen and her smaller blade was beginning to feel natural in her right hand. She did not deceive herself that she was nearly as good as her master with _either _weapon, but she happily noted that she had improved. Her mentor commented upon this as well.

"Good," he praised as she used the heavy bastard sword to divert a blow from his blade. "A girl has been more effective using her blades as one device but will also need to use them just as she did then, separately, if she wishes to master this style."

She grunted her understanding, thrusting at his belly with her smaller blade but missing as he gracefully turned side face, the blade cutting only air. On and on they went, her master seeming to move around her effortlessly, giving points of advice, small critiques and occasional encouragements, especially when she effectively used her bastard blade. Her braid slapped heavily at her back as she ducked and whirled beneath another almost blazingly swift cut from Jaqen, and as he moved to repeat his swing in the other direction, she saw her opportunity and attempted to duplicate her sliding move from their exercise two days past. This time, as with the last, it provided her with an effective escape from her master's elegant attack but he saw her intention, and responded to it accordingly as she slid on her knees. He changed his position automatically, turning around in a half-circle so that she was not able to disarm him this time with her crossed blades despite her successful avoidance of his cut. He smiled at her as she spun in one fluid move from her sliding, reclined posture with back perfectly arched as she faced away from him, to a low stance from which she was prepared to leap toward him , one leg bent beneath her, the other out straight at her side, toe pointed against the floor. Her arms were extended fully to her sides, her blades held out straight and pointing in opposite directions, like great, sharp wings. Jaqen studied her closely, wishing to commit the image of her _just like this_ to his memory. She was fierce and young and so very beautiful.

Her master appraised the way her arms were held steady, showing no strain from the heavy steel even after their long practice.

"How is it that a girl is not tired yet?" he asked her. "Is this perhaps some beneficial effect from the wine a widow consumed recently?"

"Ugh!" she moaned in a disgusted voice, pulling her blades down as she rose from her crouched position. "_Please_ don't mention sweet red to me _ever_ again!"

He laughed at her exaggerated revulsion and said, "Still, it does not seem to have had any lingering ill effects. The opposite, if anything."

"It wasn't the wine, I assure you!" she declared with a grimace, trying not to think about how awful she had felt during their interlude at the inn. "I thought it might have been one of the tricks you learned in Asshai. Did you pinch me in my sleep to give me extra energy today? Should I inspect some specific spot on my foot for a bruise?"

She meant it as a light-hearted jest, not thinking of the more recent bruises he had given her, but as soon as she said it, she felt the weight of her blunder and stopped, looking at her master for his reaction. An uncomfortable silence fell; at least, it was uncomfortable for_ her_. Her master appeared as indecipherable as ever, remaining completely expressionless as he looked at her. After a moment, his face took on the look he got when he was considering something (and he actually wished for her to _know_ he was considering something). He returned his training sword to its place and then bade her do the same.

"But I'm not tired yet!" she cried in disappointment.

"There are more lessons a Faceless Man needs than swordplay," he admonished and she reluctantly placed her swords back in their respective racks. He directed her to sit on the wooden bench before him and she obeyed, curious as to what lesson he had for her now. As soon as she had settled herself in her seat, her master grabbed the neck of her doublet and pulled it open briskly without warning, baring her neck and drawing from her lips a sharp gasp.

"Bloody hells, Jaqen!" she cried, grabbing at her clothes and clutching the edges of the doublet together over her bruised throat.

He impatiently flicked at her hands with his own, knocking them away as he knelt before her on one knee, opening the doublet up once again, laying her neck and upper chest bare, though he preserved her modesty (as ridiculous as it was, considering their time in the bath only a few days ago). He hushed her with a hard look, needing no words to express how ludicrous he found her concerns.

He studied her neck and traced the line of her collarbone with his fingers and her mind frantically clawed at her internal chant, desperately grabbing onto it, turning it almost into a hymn, sung to herself in order to keep her from gasping or shivering or doing anything else absurd before her master's eyes. _Stillness. Stillness. StillnessStillnessStillness STILLNESS! _Her shoulders were still covered by the cap of the doublet's sleeve and he impatiently clenched the material above her left arm, yanking it down, baring her entire shoulder. She could hold her tongue no longer.

"Jaqen, why are you tearing at my clothes?" she demanded, her voice unsteady.

"Shhh," he said irritably, placing his thumb in the notch of her neck and wrapping his first two fingers around the curve of her bare shoulder. At first she had thought he meant to inspect the superficial injuries she incurred as he had made some very _stringent _points during their _communications_ in her cell the night before but he largely ignored her bruises and scratches. He seemed to be using the slightly rounded line formed by his hand as a way to measure… _something._

With his free hand, he gently pushed her jaw, turning her face away from the shoulder wrapped by his fingers. He then used that hand to feel along the taut cords of muscle in her neck, probing their length. After a few seconds, he seemed to find the spot he wanted, rolling his two fingers behind the tense muscle which ran from her ear to the notch at the base of her throat where his thumb rested. He placed his fingers in that soft space for only a brief moment before dropping them straight down to her collarbone, watching as the line he traced intersected the place marked by a specific part of the hand he had stretched out along her bone. He then gently rocked his fingers over the plane of the bone, dropping his other hand. He still had not spoken and she began to grow impatient. The Cat was about to insist he explain himself when she heard him mutter something in a language she did not recognize and then found herself gripped with a sudden, blinding pain in the spot where his fingers were now digging deep down behind the bone. The pain radiated like a blazing sunburst from the spot her master was assaulting and then it felt as if her left arm had lost all sensation and it dangled uselessly by her side. She willed it to move (or at least _tried _to will it through the intense pain) so that she might use it to push him away from her, but there was no response and then her vision began to go dark. She was near to fainting when instantly, she was recovered.

In her astonishment, the girl was at a loss for what she should do. She wanted to slap Jaqen. She wanted to lunge for a blunted blade and bloody his nose the way she had bloodied her brother's earlier. But most of all, she wanted him to tell her _what exactly he did and how he did it _(although she was perfectly willing to beat the information out of him).

"That was only a small taste of what this skill can do," her master said nonchalantly, as if he were discussing the amount of salt on his mutton. "If a man had pressed harder or longer, a girl would have been rendered insensible, and for quite a long time, a man should imagine."

"What in the seven hells _was _that?" the Cat demanded to know, her voice sounding angry. "Is that another of your tricks from Asshai?"

"A girl will master this skill," he told her, not acknowledging her anger. "This is a most useful thing to know."

"I can see that," she muttered, trying out her arm and finding it completely serviceable, "but how does it work?"

"Tell a man what you remember."

She thought over all of his actions and tried to recount them in their proper order.

"You seemed to measure my collarbone with your fingers, then you traced the muscle in my neck to a point, and then you dropped your fingers into a spot that you somehow calculated with those two actions."

"Is that all?" he asked casually, raising one eyebrow at her.

"No!" she hissed. "_Then_ you mumbled some bloody magical words while you jammed your fingers into my nerves and artery and made me feel like you had just cleaved my arm from my body with a dull sword while simultaneously suffocating me!"

"Just so," he nodded, either choosing to ignore her tone or planning some elaborate correction to her attitude for later. With him, she could never be sure. "What words did a man say?"

She narrowed her eyes and looked down at the floor to her left, trying to call up the memory.

"It was… an-ha… assab demi?"

"_An'ha assab dami_," he corrected her. "Say the words."

"An'ha assab dami?"

"Yes. In the common tongue, it would be akin to saying 'to stop the blood and nerves.' Say them again."

She did as she was told but then asked, "Why are they important?"

His eyes were not on hers as he considered his answer. Instead, they were resting on the fading bruises of her upper arm, remnants of her first day sparring with the bastard sword. He wrapped his fingers around her arm, stroking the ugly green and brown marks with his thumb, one corner of his mouth quirked maddeningly upward. _Was he actually smiling as he remembered slapping her arms with the flat of his sword? Others take him, she was _certain_ that he was! _He reached out for the bunched cloth of the doublet shoved down over her shoulder and arm and tugged it back into place, covering the bruised skin with the quilted fabric once again. He then set about fastening the edges of the open garment closed again as he answered her.

"Some of the things a man learned in Asshai are simply forgotten skills of the earliest healers which survive still in that mysterious part of the world. They are things maesters might have employed in your Westeros if they had only remembered that they once knew them. They are manipulations of the anatomy, the circulation, and the nerves which bear an effect on different conditions of the body."

"Like queasiness and vomiting?"

He smiled at that, giving her a small laugh and said, "Yes, wayward Cat, like the condition a girl might suffer if she lacked discipline or experience in such matters as how much wine was prudent to drink."

She made a face at him but there was nothing she could say.

"Some of the things a man learned in Asshai are no simple healers' tricks, however," he revealed. "Some are rooted in a darker place."

"Blood magic?" she queried in a hushed voice.

"Blood magic," he confirmed.

"Can I _do _blood magic?"

"A girl has spilled more than enough blood in her life to pay for this small spell," he informed her. "As long as she only uses it when needed."

She thought about that—she didn't really know much about blood magic. Just that it _was_ magic… and required blood. But she trusted her mentor and so committed the words to memory.

"You may practice on a man," he told her, but then, giving her a warning look, added, "Do not speak the words."

_Of course not_ she thought almost bitterly. _He can paralyze me with horrible pain and then nearly render me unconscious with his thrice-damned eastern spells but I'm only allowed to poke on his collarbone._

Still, she obeyed her mentor, leaning forward toward him as he knelt on the floor before her. She then hesitated, her hands fluttering uselessly about his neck and shoulders, having encountered his jerkin and blouse and unsure what to do about it. He cocked his head at her in amusement.

"What is the trouble, lovely girl?" he purred, a dimple forming on one cheek as his bronze eyes gave her a ridiculously practiced _soulful_ look.

A sound rumbled up from her throat as her cheek colored and she bit her lip. The noise she was making was a mix of a groan and a growl, signaling both her irritation with Jaqen's teasing and her own self-admonishment for her stupid embarrassment and awkwardness. To cover her mortification, she began to artlessly tear at his clothes. Her feelings of discomfort only intensified when she found her fingers were not capable of anything defter than a fumbling at the clasps of her master's jerkin and the laces of his blouse. He placed his hands over top of hers, weaving his strong fingers together with her slender ones, stilling her trembling motions. He allowed their hands to rest there against his chest for a moment, enmeshed, as he studied the way his tanned skin contrasted with her own snowy flesh. He then looked up from their intertwined fingers to her face and when she saw his sympathetic bronze eyes shining with discernible _understanding,_ she drew in a deep breath and relaxed under his fond gaze, waiting for his calming words or sage advice.

"A man will do this thing," he volunteered sweetly, "lest a girl's clumsy fingers damage his favorite clothes."

"Bah!" she barked at him, instantly livid, jerking her hands from beneath his, the knuckles of her balled fists jamming forcefully against the seat of the bench.

"A man wonders if his paralyzing spell did some lasting damage to a girl's coordination or if she is just so inexperienced with the removing of men's clothing that she does not understand how it is done," he needled as he smoothly removed his jerkin and blouse, sitting before her now bare from the waist up.

She glared at him, a deep frown on her face, thinking _he didn't have to get completely bloody naked for this lesson_. She tried very earnestly to focus on his face, ignoring the tanned, muscled chest exposed two feet in front of her. She failed, her eyes involuntarily darting down then flicking back up, then darting down again. She felt the heat creeping up her neck and tried to stanch it by thinking of every curse she had ever heard in her life.

"Should a man ask the principle elder to assign a girl to a brothel so she can observe the art of opening a shirt?" Jaqen wondered out loud, interrupting her internal litany of profanity. "Most acolytes are able to master this task without special instruction, but a lovely girl has never been quite like the other acolytes…"

"I swear to all the gods, Jaqen, if you don't…"

"Do not obligate yourself to _all the gods_, hot-tempered Cat, a man merely japes," he assured her, grasping her left fist and delicately unfolding her clenched fingers. He placed her hand on his neck and continued, "A man would never begrudge you your innocence."

Her mouth drew itself into a tight line and she wasn't sure what was worse—the thought that her mentor would be willing to abandon her to a bloody _brothel _to learn a basic skill (that she definitely had _no need _to practice; surely he knew she was capable of removing clothes. It probably _was_ that stupid blood magic that had stiffened her fingers!) or the thought that he _wouldn't_ be willing to send her there out of regard for some idea of her _innocence_. She was a _dealer_ of death, an _almost_-Faceless Man, an _eater_ of hearts and blood, and a _killer_ of stable boys and gate guards and torturers! She was the child of a resurrected vigilante. She was reviled by the ghost of High Heart. She was feared by her brothers. She had once even scarred the most terrifying assassin she knew. There was no innocence left in her, she was convinced.

She did not realize that her lack of recognition of the innocence that _was_ left to her was itself proof of the existence of that innocence.

"Here," her master said, turning his head and tightening the cords of muscle that controlled its movement. He took her hand, dragging it down the path of the anterior muscle. "Even in a fat man, this landmark should be easy to find."

Jaqen was _not_ a fat man. His anatomy was perfectly defined for her, making the features he wanted her to know supremely easy to see and the ones that had nothing to do with this lesson distressingly obvious as well.

She shook off her pique _as well as _her distraction and focused on his lesson. He instructed her to roll her fingers over the back of the muscle and feel the soft space behind it. She did as he directed and pulled her fingers down slowly over the slanting space until he bade her stop. She did and he said she should remember this spot. As she noted where her fingers rested, he took her other hand, splaying her thumb and forefinger out wide and resting them in the same place his had been on her, _her _thumb in the notch of _his_ neck now, fingers reaching toward the rounded edge of his shoulder. His chest was broader than hers, of course, and her hand was smaller than his, so she couldn't reach the same spot he had on the shoulder.

"Drop your fingers straight down," her mentor directed, placing his two fingers over hers on his neck, guiding her path. When they came to rest on his collarbone, he said she should note which part of her hand her fingers intersected. "This is your measurement."

She nodded, not understanding quite how such a laborious measuring process was going to be tolerated by any person she was attempting to incapacitate with this technique. She voiced her doubt and her master shook his head at her, smiling, giving a little snort.

"Silly girl, you will only do this once, right here. A man merely attempts to help you understand how this skill is executed and the spot a girl must know in order to do this thing."

"Oh," she replied, biting her lip and again coloring a bit.

"This place your fingers now rest," her master continued, ignoring her discomfort, "marks the spot of the bone that guards the nerve, muscle, and artery a girl must trap with her two fingers as she says the words. Allow your fingers to drop behind the bone. Do you feel that?"

"Yes," the girl answered him as she prodded the place behind the designated spot on his collarbone, feeling the flesh give slightly under her fingers.

"Here you must use force and press down quickly."

"Now?" she asked him uncertainly, not sure if he meant for her to attempt this skill on him.

He laughed at her, "It is merely uncomfortable without the words, lovely girl. A man must feel your accuracy so that he may correct any mistakes now. If you are to do this thing, it must be…"

His lecture was cut off by his own surprised cry of pain as the Cat jammed her vengeful claws into the spot her master had bade her press. He knocked her hand away and placed his own protectively over his injured flesh, his stunned look giving his apprentice a happy tickling sensation deep inside. _Well, I felt _that _in my gut_ she thought almost giddily. He glared at her a moment and then regained his composure.

"A girl has the spot," he declared gruffly, rising up from his place before her as he grabbed his clothes piled next to him off the floor. He turned and sat next to the girl on the bench. She swiveled her head to look at him, her face at the level of the healing scratches on his neck. She exhaled heavily upon seeing them and the two of them were sitting so close together that her breath collided with the fading red of the flesh around the wounds. As she watched, tiny goose prickles arose on his neck, causing her to raise an eyebrow. Suddenly, the lines of the scratches changed their shape with the movement of his neck. He was now looking down at her, his liquid bronze eyes seeming to vacillate between serene and troubled. Wordlessly, her master pulled his loose blouse over his head, leaving the laces across his chest open as he finished his lesson on this little bit of blood magic he was allowing her.

"This thing is a girl's to do when she finds herself without a weapon and has a need to incapacitate an enemy."

"I can see its usefulness, Jaqen, but I can't pinch a man's nerve through his plate."

"No, lovely girl, you cannot. This is not a thing for the battlefield. This is a thing for closer contact."

She shook her head, not understanding. _What was closer than clashing steel with an enemy?_

He smiled at her confused look sadly and continued, "A girl is small. To those who do not know her, she will appear weak. There are times when men who mean you harm may seek to use this perceived weakness against you. There may also be times a girl chooses to use their misconceptions to her advantage. You cannot always be sure that you will have a knife strapped to your thigh when some brutish knight attempts to hurt you, sweet child."

Understanding dawned on her, and her cheek lost its color. Jaqen really _did_ have concern for her _innocence._ She recalled the flash of anger she had detected when she had made the comment about Gendry being no knight. _Did this Gendry _hurt_ a girl?_ She recalled his dangerous tone as he spoke those words and the shiver that now inched up her spine would not be suppressed. She wanted to tell her master not to spend his worry on her. She would be neither victim nor paramour; neither wife nor whore to any man. Her future of blood and steel was as clear to her now as it had ever been and nowhere in that future did she see a time where she would allow herself to be weakened by love or lust or the domination of man's will over her own.

All she knew of men and women together did little to change her mind about her intended role; the raping and whoring she'd seen at Harrenhal and on the King's Road; the stupid stories her sister loved about knights so gallant and ladies so perfect that the Cat recognized them for what they were: a lie with which to entice imbecilic little girls to become imbecilic and weak women; the lords and ladies, bound together in septs and godswoods only to be separated by duty and honor, service and war; the separation leaving only despair and longing in its wake. King Robert and Queen Cersei had ruled the entire realm and yet there was no love or happiness in their marriage. Her _own parents_, however, had seemed to be very happy, and their marriage was a success both personally and politically, but that had not saved either of them when it really mattered. Lyanna abandoned all for love and the price was blood and tears and her own life. Love was weakness, marriage a prison, and children a burden she did not desire to bear. What need had she for these things? What use for them? She would be married to her blade, comforted by her cold hate, with righteous vengeance as her only child.

"A girl knows the spot," her mentor said, pulling her from her grim meditations. "A girl knows the words. As long as a girl has her hands, she will be able to defend herself, even against a much larger foe. Even when completely disarmed." He seemed satisfied and he shrugged his jerkin over his blouse and made to leave her. Before he could rise from the bench, she placed her hand lightly on his knee, an unspoken request for him to tarry a little longer here with her. He turned his expectant gaze upon her, awaiting her words.

"Why did you lie to the Kindly Man?"

His expression remained mild and he said, "A man never lies to his master."

She bit her lip, certain of the truth of what she had seen in the courtyard, and what she had _seen_ was his _lie_.

"That may have been true before… before your walk in the garden," she almost whispered, mindful of his previous warning about _not speaking of this thing._

"What does a girl think she knows?" her master quizzed, seeming truly confused.

"He asked you…" she hesitated here, wanting to have her answer but not wishing to anger her mentor either with a reminder of the fact that she had listened to his conversation with the principle elder against his express wishes or the fact that she _was_ speaking of this thing, also against his express wishes.

The assassin clutched the back of her neck, pulling her head to him, bowing it as he placed his mouth just over her ear, growling, "What did your _Kindly Man_ ask your master?"

The girl's whisper was tremulous, vibrating with her rapid pulse as she recalled her master's very recent displeasure with her, and she answered, "He asked you why you allowed me to call you _Jaqen_."

Her master released her neck and his look was amused when she turned her face upward and regarded him, awaiting his explanation. Instead of satisfaction, however, she received a question.

"Why does a girl think a man's answer was a lie in this instance?"

The Cat's face was troubled as she considered his query and weighed the advantage she would have by obediently answering it against the one she would have if she chose instead _not_ to reveal what she had seen as she rested on the high branch of the tree, looking down upon the two men in the garden.

She opted to keep her secrets and said to him, "I don't _think_ you lied. I _know_ you did."

He raised his eyebrows at her, his expression thankfully one of tolerance of her rebuff rather than fury at it. He shrugged at her, looking almost bored as he repeated that he never lied to his master, not since he was a very small boy only just arrived at the temple.

_He had lied again_.

"A man does not make a habit of this behavior," he emphasized, then he gave the girl a meaningful glance, as if adding the unspoken words that would essentially mean something akin to _unlike some apprentices a man could name._

She pursed her lips and stared at him, hard. He met her ridiculous attempt to intimidate him with a cocky expression that belied the turmoil he felt inside. He did not, in fact, make a habit of lying to his master. Until that walk in the garden, he had only ever told the elder one lie, and that was as a tender boy of five who insisted he was not scared of a thing he had to do when, in fact, he was. At the time, it was not a difficult thing for his master to spy his falsehood, as he was not yet learned in the art of deception. He likely had even cast his eyes down and shuffled one little foot back and forth in front of himself as he insisted that he wasn't frightened, though, in truth, it was so long ago that he no longer recalled the details of the incident. Now, when he was pressed to tell half-truths or outright fabrications, he did not cast his eyes to the ground in shame like a green boy. He _had_ actually believed that he didn't do _anything_ that might be read as an indication of deceit so the fact that his lovely girl had seen something that gave his lie away was troubling. His own master was not aware of it, of that he was certain, but likely because Jaqen _had_ always been truthful with him, not exposing whatever this visible sign was to the elder to be studied and cataloged but also because the Lorathi had engendered a great degree of trust over the years.

When her mentor did not offer her the elucidation she sought, the girl gave up for the moment and sighed as she rose from the bench, saying, "I'm meant to be serving in the temple." Her master nodded his dismissal and she swept from the room, destined for her cell where she would change into her black and white robe. Her braid was swinging at her back as she burst violently through the door and into the long corridor in a show of displeasure at his unwillingness to answer her question.

But how could he?

The Lorathi had arrived at the House of Black and White so very long ago, and he had been so young at the time, that he could no longer remember what name his parents gave him. It had been easy for him to leave his past behind and become _no one_, adopting each new face, each new persona, each new name as easily as another might change his breeches. _More easily, even._ It made him particularly effective in his assignments, never raising suspicion, never feeding the doubts of those whose trust he was required to earn in order to complete the work of the Many-Faced god. With his utter mastery of _facelessness_, his victims had freely succumbed to his will, and the will of Him of Many Faces. A most cherished lover, privy to a queen's secrets and desires; a trusted maester, with access to all parts of a great household; a valued friend, a dangerous criminal, a novice, a household guard, a foot soldier; all these he had been and could be again without raising the least suspicion of his legitimacy.

He had taken the name _Jaqen H'ghar_ when he entered the black cells below the Red Keep. It was a name that called back to his Lorathi heritage; a heritage he did not remember but whose authenticity he wore in the features of his true visage. Why he chose to wear his own face just then, he did not know. It may have been that he felt the strain of that particular assignment more deeply. It was a very long and involved mission which required that he spend a great deal of time shackled with two stinking brutes, both in the black cells and then on the King's Road with the Night's Watch and their pitiful recruits. Concentrating on his face was an easy sacrifice to make when it really would not make a difference in the accomplishment of the order's goals. It seemed a small thing at the time, his own face so meaningless to him that it was no different than any other mask he might have chosen. It was only later that he would wonder if it were part of some greater plan of his god. The hair dye was meant to play upon his own natural white forelock, disguising it in plain sight. He was no more attached to the ridiculous red and white hair or the name he conjured from the air than he was to the straw he sat upon in the back of the locked wagon which Yoren drove along the King's Road.

He had changed his name so frequently and had lived as so many men that the name _Jaqen H'ghar _was nothing to him; it was _less_ than nothing, actually. It was not until he spoke it to a girl and saw in her stormy eyes that she accepted that name as verity that he realized it was indeed _something _to him. When Arya looked into his true face and _knew_ him, and believed him to be _Jaqen, _he found that he was suddenly very much _attached_ to the name he had chosen for himself. The force of this abrupt emergence of identity pressed on him and he tried to dispel it even as he sensed he was embracing it. He would treat her more casually than he felt but then show her a deference that was not in accordance with their respective stations. He knew he should attempt to break the hold this one little girl had over him but he sought only to strengthen it. He offered to her the deaths the Red god was owed though it was not required of him. It was true that the Red god would have his due, but how the deaths came was of no consequence. Jaqen had _made_ it consequential. He shooed her and ignored her at times, only to find himself drawn to her and seeking out her company at other times. Later, when his clever girl schemed to extort his aid, planning to force him to do her will lest she leave him selected and marked for death, she had whispered _Jaqen H'ghar_ in his ear, naming him. _Branding_ him.

He had later told her _Jaqen H'ghar_ was dead as he donned a false face, but this was merely to show her the power that she, too, could have if she would only use the iron coin he had gifted her. To be _Arya Stark_ was a special thing, to be sure, but the power to be _anyone_ was something else entirely. It was a shameless bribe; an allurement he hoped a captive child could not resist. _Jaqen is as dead as Arry_, he had told her, but it was a lie. She accepted his deceit with the belief a child will have in someone admired; someone trusted. But when he spoke the false words to the apprentice he _chose, _what his heart had known and his mind was slowly beginning to understand was that _Jaqen H'ghar_ had not died; he had only just been born.

These things he could not now say to a girl, nor his master. How could he reveal this sacrilege to the principle elder or answer the little Cat's question? These were things he barely allowed himself to ponder even as he held the truth of them deeply, their veracity undeniable.

Arya had spoken a name and it became his, undoing a lifetime of easy anonymity. Inside of him now existed a grain of selfhood that could never be destroyed. Whatever he might become, whoever his service might call him to be, wherever he might be sent, always inside of him now there lived _Jaqen H'ghar_, and Jaqen H'ghar belonged only to his lovely girl.


	25. Chapter 25

The temple was not as quiet today as the Cat normally found it. Most of the people who came in to weep at the feet of one or another of the statues in the House of Black and White did it early in the morning before the dawn broke or late at night, so it was disconcerting to hear a woman's soft sobs echoing around the chamber in the mid-morning hours when the sun was high. The sound was emanating, appropriately enough, from the marbled feet of the Weeping Woman. The acolyte drifted soundlessly around the temple, collecting offerings and replacing or relighting the candles which had burned too low or extinguished themselves. As she moved through the nearly abandoned corridors and wide open space of the main temple chamber, she longed to execute a few of the tumbling moves she wanted to copy from the rat-faced boy. She dared not succumb to the urge with a worshipper in the temple, however. She also recognized that if the Kindly Man crept in and caught her, he would surely not approve.

_You must learn to serve in stillness._

Almost as if he had been called from the mists by her thoughts of him, the principle elder appeared at the side of the sobbing figure, placing a hand gently on her back and speaking in low tones with her. After a few moments, during which he seemed to comfort her and she seemed to calm herself, the Kindly Man helped the woman rise to her feet and they walked arm-in-arm to the dark fountain in the center of the temple. The Cat watched as they approached the still waters, but when the woman sat on the ledge of the pool and the Kindly Man produced a cup (_Where had that been? _the girl wondered. _Does he keep them hidden in his sleeves?_) which he then handed to the forlorn woman, the acolyte turned away in distaste. It wasn't that she was bothered by death; not in the least. She had witnessed far too much of it for it to hold any discomfort for her, enduring its sting time and time again, even causing her fair share. Death held no horrors for her any longer. She found it difficult, though, to watch someone invite it; someone who had a choice between laying down and giving up or living and fighting on and yet chose _wrong. _In witnessing these things, there was no terror or sadness for the apprentice, only bewilderment. This loss of will, this weak succumbing, this lack of passion only baffled her and the Cat did not like to feel confused.

_There is only one thing we say to Death: not today._

The girl wandered down a wide passageway and into an alcove, the furthest from the pool, giving the dark waters time to do their work. She would need to remove the corpse to the chambers below and strip it, but had no want to take a dying woman before her time. She found herself staring into the veiled face of the Stranger, the obscured countenance bringing to mind her discarded widow's disguise. Her mouth curved into a small smile at the thought, remembering how she had poisoned the beautiful maid's figs while wearing the dark clothes and veil. She had unintentionally dressed as the Stranger to usher another to the Stranger's side, _if you believed in all that_.

"I have seen many people visit this spot," the Kindly Man's placid voice started from just beyond the girl's right shoulder, "but I do not believe I have ever seen any of them _smile_." As soon as she heard the elder speak, the small smile died on her lips and as she turned to him, her expression was not amused any longer but rather radiated a practiced respect and sympathy (her _temple_ face, as she had come to think of it).

"I was just thinking that the Stranger and I have much in common," the girl remarked, inclining her head slightly to the imposing statue with seeming reverence.

"Do not confuse service to the Many-Faced god and giving the gift of death with governing the dead, child," the man chided her gently as he regarded the pale, veiled figure before them. "A simple matter of costuming does not make you more like _him_."

Though the apprentice could not know it, even her own mother had seen that her youngest daughter, her fierce wolf-child, was much more like another of the Seven than the Stranger. The Cat might have fancied in herself a kinship with the most frightening of the Seven, but the devout daughter of Hoster Tully had glimpsed her wild girl's serious Stark features through the smoke trailing from a torch, clouding a ruined sept and stinging her eyes. She found the girl's face in the crudely rendered drawing of the Warrior, a visage she came upon in the sept of an abandoned village she had visited when treating in the name of her son, Robb Stark, the King in the North. Arya's mother had tried in vain to make a peace with Renly Baratheon, the one among the five kings with the most of summer in him. At the time, Lady Stark was recently widowed, grieving her husband, distracted with doing her part to guarantee the safety of her sons, and feeling the absences of her daughters acutely. The mother had not the time to spare much thought for what her vision might mean but had seen the truth of her daughter's destiny nonetheless. Arya had more of the Warrior in her than any of the other faces of the Seven but it was so very long ago and the youngest Stark girl had not been there, so the observation passed from all knowledge with her mother's murder.

If the Kindly Man was inclined to agree with Catelyn Stark's vision, he did not say so but instead commented on the girl's judgment of the woman who now lay dying on the ledge of the fountain just down the corridor from where they stood.

"Why do you flee from death, child?"

"I'm not fleeing from _death_," she corrected him. "I just don't understand it, is all."

"Valar morghulis," the elder reminded her. "All men must die."

"Yes, but there is no requirement to hasten along the path to your own death!" she insisted, frowning with distaste at the very idea. Since even before the end of her idyllic life at Winterfell, Arya had only ever known what it meant to stand and fight; in her play; in her willful disobedience of her Septa; in her tousling with her many brothers. Her natural drive to fight was only sharpened by all that came after her family was separated by her father's sense of duty and loyalty to his friend and king.

"No reason to hasten along the path to death?" the elder mused. "Some might see the choices a Cat makes and say the same thing."

This stopped her short, wondering to which choices the Kindly Man referred. Jaqen had been warning her all along that some of the things she had done were dangerous and seemed to be drawing her down a path where she might meet with the end of the principle elder's patience. He had more than hinted that a consequence of that could be her own end but she felt reasonably  
confident that either the Kindly Man was more tolerant of her behavior than her master was inclined to believe or that he was indeed unaware of the things which might have otherwise earned his ire. But, here was this cryptic observation, just specific enough to worry her but not specific enough to give her a clue as to the direction her worry should take.

Knowing that in these cases, it was best to hold her tongue and try very hard to remain unreadable, she merely raised her eyebrows as if inviting the elder to expand on his comments but showed no other reaction and remained silent. It was a ploy that never worked, only, this time, it _did_.

"You cannot be an acolyte forever," he told her gravely. "In time, each apprentice must become a master. You must be wary along your path toward facelessness so that you do not put your trust in the wrong places and spend your faith on the wrong people. If you are not careful, you will find that you have been led astray and have reached a point where you can no longer achieve your aim."

This surprised her, though she fought valiantly not to show it. She thought he might admonish her for listening in on conversations not meant for her ears or for hearing news of her family and responding as Arya Stark would rather than with the tolerance and detachment of _no one._ She thought he would berate her for having her wolf dreams, citing them as proof that she had not managed to give up herself fully to Him of Many Faces. But instead, he was warning her about trusting too readily. Yet, the Cat trusted _no one_. Well, no one but her master and her brother (_he was still alive, she was certain_). Was the Kindly Man telling her that she could not trust _Jaqen_? But that was ridiculous! She must have misunderstood him. She meant to think on his words and decipher their true meaning later because the very idea that she could not trust her own master was… unfathomable.

_Do you trust a man?_

_I trust you more than I trust any man alive._

She remembered the words she had exchanged with Jaqen over honeyed chicken and fought the urge to bite her lip as she considered the nature of their trust. She had no desire to give the Kindly Man cause to slap her. She packed the elder's strange words away in the corner of her mind where she was piling the things that bore more consideration and merely nodded at the man, showing she had heard his words.

The elder turned slightly away from her, peering down the corridor into the gloom of the temple and sighed, saying, "I believe you are needed by the pool."

The Cat seized upon the opportunity to make her escape, saying a quick, "Valar morghulis," to the Kindly Man and then darting toward the serene fountain to retrieve the sobbing woman, now silent and still, merely a shell from which life had fled before the irresistible press of the poisoned water.

She found the woman collapsed by the pool and could see that she would be able to easily lift her thin frame, hoisting her over her shoulder to carry her down below to do her required work. As she rolled the corpse into a position for lifting, the girl was surprised to see that the departed was young, her face very beautiful. She had assumed the woman to be old and sickly or at the very least, disfigured and carrying some visible evidence of a disadvantage to explain her arrival here in the House and her craving for the gift she sought. What reason could a fair woman in her prime have to give up on life? Even with her slack mouth and fading color, the Cat could tell that she was almost of an age with the woman who appeared to be even younger than the curly-headed maid the Cat had dispatched with her tainted fruit not so long ago.

The memory of that assignment called up something in her mind's eye. She leaned closer to the dead girl, studying her face in the dim light thrown by the candles and torches in the sanctum. _Yes, she could see it now. The dark curls, almost raven-black; the soft doe eyes; the apple cheeks… Sisters? This one the younger? It had to be; the resemblance was too strong to be coincidence._

That gave her pause as she considered the likely scenario. A dear sister, dead of a mysterious ailment, a sudden illness perhaps, and the grief too much to bear. The Cat wrinkled her nose, looking into the girl's lax face, her worries no longer creasing her brow, her tears no longer flowing. She was at peace, the Cat supposed, but she could not avenge her sister. She could only join her in the Nightlands. _Of all the bloody stupid craven ways to react to the death of your family…_

She thought of Sansa as she hoisted the small woman, throwing the corpse over her shoulders with a grunt, and imagined what she would feel if she found out that her only sister had been killed. She knew that in reality, this was a likely scenario and if the acolyte were ever sent to Westeros on the business of the Many-Faced god, it was entirely possible that she would receive the same news that this formerly sobbing woman had received. The girl tried to imagine herself swallowing down poison, willingly, in response to such a tragedy and she could not. She loved Sansa. She _did_. But that is exactly why she would not join her sister either at the feet of the old gods or in one of the Seven heavens or in the Nightlands or moldering in a tomb. She loved her sister enough to _act_. Blood and steel. That was the only correct answer. That was the only acceptable response to death.

Daggers through the sides of necks and stuck into hearts and twisted; swords, two of them, parting shoulders from heads and cleaving men in two; poison strangling traitors at feasts; her own small hands, perhaps aided by a knee, crushing a throat; all these she considered using against her sister's imagined killer or killers as she made her way to the dark cells below the temple to commandeer anything usable from the cold woman on her shoulder.

As she removed the girl's clothes (with no Jaqen around to witness just how deftly her fingers worked clasps and laces, of course), her thoughts took a natural turn from her own imagined vengeance against her sister's fictitious murderers to her very real anger against her brother's betrayers. She wasn't sure how she would get to the Wall, or when, but she had added it to her list. With Ser Gregor, Dunsen, and Raff no longer demanding her energy, she found herself with some time available for wishing death upon a new set of offenders. That she was not sure which of the black brothers were responsible was of little consequence.

_…death will come. On the morrow, at the turn of the moon, a year from this day, it will come. A man does not fly like a bird, but one foot moves and then another and one day a man is there…_

She remembered her master's words, spoken as a promise in the godswood at Harrenhal. Jaqen had been vowing to kill the king, if she was so inclined to name Joffrey, but there was a greater lesson to be had, if only a girl had the ears to listen and the mind to understand. There was an inevitability about death (_Valar morghulis_) but a vow to be the giver of that gift was sacred; unbreakable. The power to deliver a man to his end, to take from him his breath and stop his beating heart, was bestowed by the god of this temple upon his chosen. Mercy was for the Mother but Arya was the Warrior, the pitiless instrument of Him of Many Faces, and the cold vengeance of the old gods, her hatred relentless, her memory long, her impulsion savage.

The name "Satin" emerged in her thoughts and she remembered her mentor's tale of the escaped squire from Castle Black, now riding with the brotherhood at her mother's command. _He_ would know who was responsible for betraying Jon. That she knew with a certainty that her brother still lived mattered not—betrayal was betrayal and with no Starks but herself left to exact justice (she could hardly imagine Sansa riding to Jon's defense, in any case, assuming she was still alive), it fell to her. She did not wonder at Jon's feelings on the matter, not caring that he might have taken his own revenge but had not. That was not Jon's way—he was too much like their father. Honor was his strength _and_ his weakness, as it had been Lord Eddard's. He was not capable of pure revenge. She frowned a bit as she folded the underskirt she had removed from the apple-cheeked girl and thought how strange it was that she felt no shame that her disposition varied so extremely from those exhibited by the great men in her life. Her father would not approve of her revenge scheme, she was sure, and Jon might _understand_ it, but he would not condone it. Even Jaqen would say that she was being selfish and selfishness had no place among the Faceless Men. _Service to the Many-Faced god means a man's own_ _purposes are the same as the order's._

"Men are stupid," she mumbled to herself. How could exacting justice ever be wrong? How could avenging your own family be selfishness? How could delivering the gift of death ever offend the Many-Faced god? Was there any greater form of reverence? Was there a more sincere sort of worship? Did their god not bathe in the blood of those delivered to him, their cries sweet perfume in his nose, the tears of the mourning a precious offering of grief to delight him? To do what she felt she _must_, to visit her righteous anger upon the heads of Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, the traitorous black brothers, and any others who may have harmed her family, was not a selfish act but a _holy_ one.

The Cat was preparing to drag the naked corpse deeper into the House of Black and White, to the lowest and darkest level where she could release the apple-cheeked girl to the murky depths of the small canal bordering the north wall of the temple which led to the bay. From there, the tides would deliver the corpse to the sea, at least whatever parts of it were not consumed by the giant eels that lived on the muddy canal floor, feeding off the remains of the bereft and hopeless the Cat delivered to them, growing ever fatter and larger. She had once seen an eel rise smoothly to the surface and snap the head from a body that had been sent through the chute into the canal. She had never realized what powerful jaws and long, sharp teeth eels had until she saw one of them sever the neck of that corpse with a single bite.

_Another young bride for the drowned god_ some Northern part of her thought with disdain, both for the weakness of a sister who could not stand and fight for her blood as well as for the god of the Iron Islands. _I hope the drowned god doesn't mind his women a bit chewed, the eels haven't been fed in a few days. _Before the Cat had managed to hoist the girl once again to her shoulders, she felt a slight change in the temperature in the room, a small shift in the pressure, and whirled around to see the handsome man entering the chamber silently. He nodded to her and spoke the typical greeting of the temple.

"Valar dohaeris," the Cat responded.

"I have come for the woman," he told her simply in Braavosi.

"Why?" the girl asked automatically, receiving a reproving look from the master for her impertinence, but he answered her nonetheless.

"Her face has value," the Faceless Man told her.

The Cat knew that this meant the girl's visage was destined to be added to the repository. She nodded and stepped away from the corpse, allowing the handsome man to approach the apple-cheeked girl and lift her into his arms. He nodded to the acolyte and turned to leave the chamber but then stopped and spoke without turning back to face her.

"My brother is most worried about you, little wolf," he said and she could not tell if it was a warning or merely an observation. The handsome man swept noiselessly from the room without saying more.

_Why was his brother worried? And which brother had he meant?_

* * *

The girl entered the large dining hall for the supper that night still wearing her long, cowled robe which marked her as a member of the order, but her mind was far outside of the temple as she seated herself for the meal. Loric stood in the corner, ready to serve, grinning as ever despite a split, bloodied lip. She frowned at his abused face but said nothing as she accepted the lemon water he offered her (having heard of her sudden distaste for red wine, which was the other beverage being served that night).

"A drunken sailor caught me listening to his conversation," the boy revealed unbidden, even his whisper sounding happy, "but I learned three new things, anyway!"

She wondered what he had learned that was worth a fist to the mouth, but knowing Loric, he was just happy to have completed an assignment, regardless of the quality of the information he had brought back to the Kindly Man.

As the boy practically skipped back to his corner, the Cat's mind drifted back to her previous thoughts, mostly surrounding Nymeria. It was strange for the direwolf to be so prominent in the girl's mind without there having been a recent dream, but she had crossed paths with the black and white cat who wandered the temple (a fine mouser, that one) on the way to the dining hall and for some reason, seeing that small animal had brought to mind a much larger one. She had wondered where her wolf might be as she bent to stroke the cat's silken fur, earning a small nip on the hand just before the cat brushed around her legs, his arched back leaving a few small tufts of fur clinging to the hem of the girl's soft robe.

"Do you know where she is, little cat?" the girl asked the animal softly as she thought of her wolf leading a large pack of her cousins to better hunting grounds, and the cat trilled faintly, then purred as he circled the girl's legs once more, earning himself a scratch behind his ears. Satisfied with the attention he had received, he nipped once more at the girl's hand and then sauntered off, his tail curling lazily at the tip, and if he knew of Nymeria's whereabouts, he certainly wasn't saying.

At table, the question continued to plague the Cat and as the friendly murmurs of conversation surrounded her, the girl took a bite of her warm bread and stared into the candle flame before her, casting its glow on the platters and bowls of food lining the center of the table. She found herself wondering if she might glimpse the answer she sought as a Red priest would. Her focus softened and the small flame flickered and danced with each of the movements of her brothers nearby, the inconstant placement of the fire creating images before her eyes. Her chewing slowed and then stopped and she saw a ruined face with eyes that burned with hate like hot coals and reflected her own. She saw a tattered cloak and a hammer and noose, a fine longsword with a distinctive hilt, and a greybeard missing a finger, his face indistinct and his wrists shackled but the silver chain connecting the cuffs broken. And then she saw _Nymeria_, her grey coat shimmering in the moonlight like ice in the harsh daylight of winter. She could not tell where the wolf was, but she was moving, ever moving, and the girl could _feel_ her movement, carrying her eastward. Always to the east.

The image dissolved as a hand passed over the flame before her eyes, extinguishing it. Across the table from the Cat, her master had taken a seat, and his bronze eyes burned brighter than a thousand candles as she looked into them. His expression remained neutral and he did not speak, but she understood him anyway and sat up a little taller in her chair, suddenly voracious, attacking her lamb chop, her eyes cast down upon the platter before her.

"Tell us, brother," the waif began in High Valyrian, addressing Jaqen, drawing his attention away from Arya as the tiny woman brought him into her conversation with the handsome man, the little lordling, and the principle elder, "what is _your_ opinion on these dragons in Dorne? After all, you are the only one who has seen them. What do they plan?"

The Lorathi seemed reluctant to discuss the subject at table and his apprentice could fairly imagine his thoughts, knowing he would likely prefer to have this conversation in council chambers and away from the curious ears of the acolytes (one in particular), but he answered anyway, though tersely.

"A man believes they plan to do what dragons have always done."

There was a quiet that fell over the table and all eyes turned to the Cat's master, awaiting his clarification. Shaking his head slightly and sighing, he finally obliged, speaking softly.

"To conquer the land with fire and blood."

"Just so," the handsome man agreed. "They may even have already begun their campaign. Our brother saw them in Dorne over a year past. It is difficult to believe they would have been sitting idle all this time."

"No," the Kindly Man disagreed mildly. "It may be difficult to imagine, but it is true nonetheless."

He did not reveal how he knew this but no one disputed his statement, merely nodding in deference.

_He knows things_ the Cat thought, _but how? Does he have a dragonglass candle? Or the gift of sight like the ghost of High Heart, learning of things before they happen, informed by his dreams? Does the Many-Faced god whisper in his ear as he slowly shuffles through the courtyard garden alone?_

"And once they have Westeros," the waif pressed, "will they turn their eyes toward Essos and the Free Cities?"

Jaqen shrugged and then reminded them that the dragons had already been in Essos, and departed, having lain waste to the slave cities when all attempts to free them had not worked. Astapor was only cleansed of the bloody flux once dragonfire had seared it and Yunkai was little more than a pile of cinders now after those who took over command of it attempted to use their new power to betray their rightful ruler, the conquering queen, and subjugate their Astapori brothers. Only Mereen had survived, and then only after a third of the surviving masters, the strongest and most stringent of Daenerys Targaryen's critics, had been roasted alive by dragonfire in the fighting pits as an example and the surviving slave populations from Yunkai and Astapor had poured through the gates and now outnumbered the former masters one hundred to one.

Those as could be trained to fight and were able bodied were likely in Dorne with their liberator now, following the Dragon Queen and her children across the narrow sea in a fleet of ships so large that they were forced to dock only long enough to put their passengers ashore and then had to sail again out to the sea, making way for the next wave of ships needing unloading.

"To return here, intent on conquering the Free Cities does not seem a goal of either of the silver dragons," the Lorathi concluded. "There are no slaves to free and this is not their land by rights. A man believes the dragons will stay in the west."

The Kindly Man nodded his agreement and reiterated, "The dragons will not leave Westeros now that they have landed." But it seemed to the Cat that there was a keen look in the elder's eye as he said it which cast doubt on the conviction boasted by his tone. As she watched the Kindly Man declare confidently that the Free Cities had nothing to fear from dragons, he turned his eyes upon her face and observed her closely, his expression inscrutable. She held his gaze, trying futilely to interpret his look and could feel another pair of eyes burning into her from across the table. She did not outwardly acknowledge her master, but she knew his bronze eyes were urging her to tread very carefully.

_My brother is most worried about you, little wolf._

_If you are not careful, you will find that you have been led astray and have reached a point where you can no longer achieve your aim._

_Stupid girl__, who do you think your Kindly Man is? What does a girl suppose will happen to her once her Kindly Man has no use for her?_

_The handsome man; the Kindly Man; her master. _All of their words rattled in her head, warring for her acceptance; confusing her as to their objective; demanding her trust. Unsure which way to turn, she gave her attention to her platter and finished her supper, thinking instead of the intentions of dragons and the intentions of those who would use them.

_How fast do dragons fly_? the girl wondered. _How long would it take a dragon to cover the distance between Dorne and the North?_

* * *

Long after supper, the Cat tossed and turned upon her soft mattress in the pitch black of her cell, finding that sleep eluded her no matter how fervent her desire for it. The knife and leather strap at her thigh chafed her skin as she rolled over once again, trying to find the position that would most likely result in her pushing her tumultuous thoughts down far enough that she could finally rest. Her mind seized upon one half-formed idea after another, throwing them into the forefront of her mediations in a rotating fashion and depriving her of her sleep she craved. Lady Stoneheart; dragons; the wooden case left at Meerios'; Jon; the final trial; Nymeria; Jaqen's lie to the Kindly Man; Gendry; blood magic; the rat-faced boy's hatred; the familiar doe eyes of the apple-cheeked girl; raking wounds against tanned flesh. Frustrated, she flipped over again, beating her fist against her pillow and growling as the flat hilt of her small throwing knife pressed uncomfortably at her inner thigh. She grasped at it and yanked it from the leather strap, meaning to toss it in the corner in irritation when she felt a slight draft across her cheek.

Instinctively, she bolted up in her bed, unseeing but knowing where her door was. The knife flew from her fingertips and struck flesh, drawing a loud cry, deep and wailing. She sprang from the bed, landing in a crouch between it and her chair pushed against her far wall. She had thought to roll beneath her bed for shelter until she could scrabble through her doorway and into the corridor. The passage, normally lit, was as dark as the cell itself but she could feel the flow of air drifting in from the passageway and could follow it to her escape. The shuffling of feet, several pairs of them, caused her heart to sink. _Too many_, _and blocking the path to safety._

She felt her ankles grasped tightly and she was yanked roughly across the stone floor from beneath her narrow bed, cursing loudly as she scratched at the floor, seeking a grip somewhere but finding none. No words were spoken to her though she could hear the heavy breathing of one of the men, likely the one she had managed to injure. Many sets of hands were working on her, fighting to restrain her as she clawed and bit and resisted with all her considerable strength. One pair worked at binding her wrists behind her while another pair bound her ankles. A third set gagged her and threw a hood over her head (_Why? _she wondered wildly. The heavy blackness of the cell had already blinded her_)._

She could feel herself being hoisted into the air, and she kicked and fought her attackers as much as she could with her ankles and wrists bound and her legs pressed tightly against one of her assailant's chests, pinned by his strong arms. His shoulder dug into her belly, pressing the breath out of her and she stopped her useless movements, thinking to preserve her energy as she forced herself to _think_.

First, she needed to decide if this was part of her training or an actual attack. The masters were renown for taking acolytes unawares and putting them into difficult situations, teaching them to react quickly, to always be ready, and to solve their problems with whatever was available to them. But there were also those among her brothers who spared no love for her and who might possibly wish her harm. And then there were all of the warnings and ominous words that had been directed toward her lately, many from her own master but some from others, including the Kindly Man. She again remembered the handsome man's statement to her from earlier in the day. _My brother is most worried about you, little wolf. _Was _this_ what he meant?

The Cat was adept at slipping bonds, but as she tried the cords at her wrists, she found them so bitingly tight that she was unable to even move her two wrists against each other. She could just wrap the fingers of one hand around the other to feel the top of the rope binding her but her short fingernails could not pick at it effectively.

The footsteps of the one bearing her seemed to slow and then she felt him push through a door and enter a stairwell. They begin descending. The footfalls of his companions echoed above her and seemed to be following her as they descended further and further into the temple, the air becoming cooler and then damper. They finally burst out of the stairwell and into a dank passageway and she knew where they were heading. An icy feeling gripped her gut and she began to struggle in earnest, her angry cries of protest muffled by the gag and hood.

The sudden vehemence of her movements seemed to hasten her attackers' pace and they bustled out of the corridor and into another chamber; the same chamber to which she had intended to bring the apple-cheeked girl before the handsome man had stopped her; the chamber with the square iron door mounted low on the north wall, covering the portal through which the Cat fed the eels. The iron door whose bolt she now heard scraping across its latch as she felt hands gripping her limbs, forcing her arms down flat.

Her bound wrists were unable to reach the one blade left on her body, tucked into a small pocket sewn on the interior of her shift, just inside the neckline, resting uselessly at her breast. She felt the sickening cold of the metal door frame chilling her through the thin material of the shift as she was pushed across it roughly, head first. As more of her body was forced through the port and her shoulders breached the edge of the opening, she felt herself hanging over empty space, gravity working on her and pulling her head toward the canal below. This shift in her posture caused the heavy hood to fall away from her face and then drop down to the murky waters with a gentle flutter that belied the speed her own rapid plunge would have if she did not find a way to stop this. As she was pushed to the point where her wrists were just beyond the opening of the port, she grasped at its edge with her fingers, arresting her slide outward for a brief moment. She bent quickly at the waist, trying to sit up, hoping that if her attackers saw her face, they might relent in their madness. She stared desperately into the gloom of the chamber through the portal, unable to speak, but she saw four figures, all men by their size, wearing their belted robes of black and white, hoods raised around their heads, hiding their faces in deep shadow and protecting their identities. She was shoved harder, her grappling fingers wrenched from the edge they gripped, losing her battle to hold on. As her body moved further out of the small doorway and into the night air, the moon partly broke the clouds and shone weakly through the portal and into the room in which she was fighting to remain. The light was still too dim to pierce the darkness of the cowls and see faces, but as she tilted further downward, she glanced back up at her assailants one last time and thought she could see three healing scratches on the neck of the man whose grip was now all that kept her from plummeting down to the canal.

"_Jaqen?_" the girl thought desperately, her hope creating a thundering surge of joy in her chest, knowing as she did in her bones that her master would never allow any real harm to come to her.

And then all she knew was falling; falling, until she slipped into the murky depths of the canal, the cold water swallowing her whole.


	26. Chapter 26

The mind is capable of having many thoughts almost at once, receiving a multitude of information from the senses and interpreting it simultaneously. A lord may sup at his wedding feast and savor the taste of the roasted boar prepared for him even as he enjoys the sound of music playing and looking at his new, young bride, appreciating her beauty. He may think, "Ah, the gods have blessed me" and he might mean with such delicious fare, such soothing sounds or such a comely wife. He might even mean all three at once, because the complexities of the human mind allow for a man to consider things nearly at once or quickly in tandem and pass judgment on them, acting accordingly. If he enjoys the flavor of the boar, he may have another bite. If he is entertained by the song, he may cry out for his guests to dance. If he is enraptured with his new wife, he may lean over and place a kiss upon her mouth, wishing for some drunken guest to bellow about the bedding sooner rather than later.

In this same way, the Cat was receiving information from her senses, considering it all at once, and making judgments about what she should do next. The canal was deep at this time, influenced as it was by the tides. High tide must have only just occurred, judging by how far down she sank into the dark depths of the channel. She felt the chill of the tidal water, sensed the amount of air she had filling her lungs, and guessed at the number of eels like to be silently slithering about the muddy bottom of the canal where her toes now rested. She was having many thoughts at once, like a crowd of voices shouting in her head, while the overarching idea she was trying to push forward was _don't panic_. The rest of the information buzzing through her head was a mixture of notions and considerations, some important, some less so, at least while she was trying to solve the most pressing of her problems, which was that she now likely had just under three minutes until she would start to drown.

Thankfully, she had entered the water feet first though she was shoved through the portal with her head leading her way. At the moment she realized she was going to fall (_when she realized that her master was going to _drop_ her)_, the girl called upon her memory of some of her rat-faced brother's acrobatic skills. Just as she slipped easily from the door in the lower wall of the temple toward the canal, she pulled her body into a tight ball, spinning slightly and then unfolding herself with her toes pointing downward just as she struck the water. This made it easier to get her bearings once her descent was arrested by the mucky floor of the canal. With the sort of mad humor that sometimes grips a person in times of great stress, she thought wryly that she had gotten to execute one of the Westerosi boy's moves after all, and in a more appropriate venue than the solemn temple where the idea had first struck her. There, deep below the surface of the water, trying not to waste time with smiling at her own flawless execution of the aerial tumble, she could feel the long skirt of her shift billowing up around her waist, floating weightlessly around her as she tried to think.

A thick, muscular creature with a slow, curving movement brushed against her bare leg and seemed to suggest she might have _another_ pressing problem to solve besides the likelihood of drowning. The eels in the bay were of standard size, still very dangerous, but not deadly, per se. The eels that found their way into the canal, however… Those creatures fed upon a steady diet of flesh, settling in on the muddy bottom of the channel and awaiting their sustenance, and they grew quite large. The biggest she had ever seen was as thick around as a large man's thigh, with a mouth full of razor-like teeth, its body covered with shiny black scales that gleamed like armor in the sunlight (when it bothered to break the surface of the water to expose its scales to the sun, anyway).

Her thoughts became muddled, stacking one on top of the other, happening all at once. _I can hold my breath for a very long time; don't panic. Gods, Jaqen… don't think about it now. The eels haven't been fed. I'm going to kill him. These ropes are too tight, I can't even move my ankles. Maybe I can push up from the bottom and break the surface to get a breath. It's too dark to see anything down here… oh, but I felt that. Don't panic. Eel! Don't panic! THINK! If I could somehow get the knife... There's another one, oh, there are so many! Why? Jaqen…_

The water was beginning to churn around her. She knew the eels would become frenzied if they scented blood, so she cast her thoughts out to the old gods and the new and the Many-Faced god and then, reluctantly, to the drowned god, suddenly feeling very sorry that she had japed about his bride being _chewed, _begging them to keep her from being bitten by an eel. She knew the appeal was likely useless, but she could not think of else to do at just that second and praying and beseeching distracted her from the bumping of the eels and the feel of their slick bodies grazing hers. If one of the dangerous creatures had a mind to nip her and broke her skin, it would be the end of her, and a significantly painful, messy, inauspicious end at that. She tried her wrists again, attempting furiously to pull them apart and loosen the bonds but then felt a rather aggressive bump against her back. The girl turned quickly in the water, her open eyes just glimpsing the suggestion of the shadow of a large eel pushing past her in the small amount of moonlight that pierced the depth of the water. _Don't bite me_ she thought, directing her will at the eel. She ceased beseeching the gods and turned her prayers toward the hungry lords of the canal. _Don't bite me, don't bite me, don't bite me, don't bite me!_

She felt herself slipping into panic as another eel, even larger, passed her, grazing her side with his thick body. She fought against the pounding of her heart, willing it to slow. She pushed away the urge to draw in a great, watery breath to scream. She strove hard to avoid giving into terror because she knew that if she allowed that to happen, she was lost. If she were not under water, she would have taken a deep breath to calm herself, but as it was, she only had her thoughts for comfort. In that brief space of time she still had before losing herself to hysteria, Syrio's voice came to her.

_Calm as still water._

She nodded almost imperceptibly as if acknowledging Syrio's expertise in the matter of remaining calm. But then, his words were pushed aside and it was the Kindly Man's voice she heard ringing in her ears.

_When you truly find a moment of stillness, you will learn it is neither life nor death. It is strength and awareness. _

_Stillness._

The girl was bumped again by a thick-bodied monster, causing her to rock slightly forward and she struggled to keep her balance. She stared hard, her lungs beginning to burn, trying to watch the eel, seeing if it was going to turn and charge her. As her feet planted themselves firmly in the thick, slimy muck at the canal's floor, she suddenly felt almost weightless, as if she were drifting, moving smoothly, gliding instinctively toward a… almost a _smell._ A smell like… _food_? She pushed forward, just passing the point where the _smell_, if that's what it was, was strongest, feeling her long, sleek sides caress the warm flesh of the thing she wanted to _eat. _She made a graceful turn in the water, and headed back to where the smell had originated. She _saw_ nothing, but she _sensed _that it was there. She butted her head against the thing and felt _herself_, felt her body as it gave a little to the pressure of her great eel head. She passed the long, sleek eel body over the arms pulled back behind her, and knew what she had to do. The eel circled back, its will now not its own. She approached herself from behind, her still form standing upright, trying to hold herself steady against the push and pull of the gentle current and the occasional bumping of the eels against her legs.

The jaws of the eel opened wide, sharp teeth like tiny knives lining the mouth, and clamped down hard near the bound hands. The jaws locked and the great head of the monster began to shake, tossing the girl's body back and forth in the murky canal, deep below the water's surface. Suddenly, the girl's hands burst free from their constraints and the eel bumped the her on her bottom, giving her some momentum to pull herself up and burst through the surface of the black waters. When the Cat felt the cool of the night air on her face, she ripped off her gag and drew in several great, gasping breaths. She reached inside of her sodden, clinging shift and found her small knife, using it to cut the ropes from her ankles. As the ropes fell free and drifted down to rest on the bottom of the canal, she heard a small splash behind her and spun her body around in the water, her back now toward the bank of the canal nearest her temple. She saw another of the large eels, it's blind eyes not seeing her but not needing too. It slithered just beneath the calm surface of the water with a speed that was unbelievable for such a large creature, it's mouth open and seeking its meal; _her_.

_Don't panic. Don't let it break your skin._

The Cat raised her knife and as the eel neared her, it's large jaw swinging open even wider, it seemed to prepare to clamp onto her shoulder. At the last second, the Cat dropped below the surface, sliding beneath the monstrous eel and jamming her knife upwards towards the thing's trunk, sinking her blade into its great belly. When she had buried the blade to the hilt, she drug it through the eel lengthwise, creating a large, ragged slit which began to leak guts and blood into the water around her. The girl then clenched her blade between her teeth and pulled herself with all her strength away from the carnage, using long, even strokes, knowing that within seconds, every eel in the canal would be swarming this area, looking for a meal. As she swam away from the dying eel with speed, she felt many of his brothers, large and small, brushing past her, drawn to the blood. She swam in the direction of the south bay, thinking as she did _I am not your meal, keep moving. _Her thoughts flickered back and forth as she swam, thinking of how hungry she was but she must swim further to eat, then thinking she just needed to get out of the canal. When she felt certain she was clear of danger, she swam toward the near side of the canal, grabbing at the long grasses and cat o' nine tails and using them to hoist herself up the muddy bank and onto dry land. She lay on the grassy strip lining the bank for a long time, panting, not thinking of anything except how glad she was that she was not being digested inside of several eels at that precise moment. Her hair splayed out all around her, loose and tangling into wet ropes dripping into the grass. She thought she must have lost the leather tie that held her braid together in the canal. After a while, she sat up and began to scrape the canal muck from her feet, only partially succeeding. She reasoned that the barefoot walk back to the temple would remove the rest, only, she wasn't sure she should return to the temple just then.

_What just happened?_

Her mind seemed to explode into every direction at once and she willed herself to be _still._ The girl pulled her legs underneath her, the soaked shift nearly transparent as it stuck to her skin, and sat with her palms flatly pressing the tops of her thighs. She gazed out at the deceptively placid waters of the canal, enveloped by the quiet of the Isle of the Gods and the darkness of the cloudy night. She could not stay there forever, she knew, kneeling on the bank of the canal. She must decide what to do.

_What to do very much depends on what that was_ she thought. _It could have been a test, but of what? _

The strength of the bonds was such that she could have no hope of slipping them, so it was not a test of that particular skill. The position in which she was bound made any sort of attempt to swim to safety so difficult as to be impossible. Though everyone in the temple knew she always had a knife or three on her person, her arms being bound behind her would make accessing _any_ of them unlikely (and, of course, she had left one of her blades _in_ one of her attackers). So, what? A murder attempt? It certainly felt that way, though it made no sense. Who would want her dead? Or, rather, who would want her dead badly enough that they would be willing to risk the ire of the Kindly Man and her master?

_Her master._

She paused, swallowing hard. When she had looked back through the open door of the portal and glimpsed the men in their black and white robes preparing to drop her into the water, she had felt sure she had seen those familiar scratches on the neck of one of her attackers, but now, she wasn't so certain. It had happened very quickly, and the light was poor and she was certainly in an excitable state at the time. Could she have been mistaken? But the pounding in her chest and the knot in her gut told her that she would have to find out for sure. She could not accept that Jaqen would harm her but she thought perhaps there was some other explanation she was missing. She had to speak to him.

The apprentice rose from the grass, brushing futilely at the mud caking her shift where her knees had pressed it through the grass and into the dirt. She walked to the cobblestone lane that ran like a grey ribbon around the isle and followed it home.

* * *

The courtyard garden was quiet as the Cat dropped over the wall in a spot that was becoming familiar to her. Her walk back to the temple had partially dried her shift, but it was still very damp and hung heavily, the dirty hem and skirt slapping her legs as she walked. Her hair was still dripping a little, hanging all around her shoulders and sticking wetly to her neck and back. The girl had originally considered bursting through the weirwood and ebony doors of the place, calling angrily for her master to come out and explain himself to her, but she thought the better of it during her walk to the temple and decided to use a stealthier approach.

The bedraggled acolyte flew silently down the dark stone path winding through the garden and let herself in through the back door which led to the kitchen. The place was as quiet as death and she did her best not to disturb the silence, slipping quickly through the corridors and down the stairwell to the second level, where Jaqen's cell was located. She wondered if she would even find him in it. If her _adventures_ had been some sort of order-sanctioned test of her skills, there would likely be a master (possibly hers) awaiting her return in the main temple chamber while the rest of them gathered in the council chambers where, as an acolyte, she was not allowed to enter. But if she found her master in his _own_ chamber, that likely meant he had perpetrated this misdeed of his own volition or else was not involved with it at all. As much as she wanted to believe that was true, that Jaqen had not abducted her from her own bed (well, from _under_ it, anyway), tied her up, and thrown her to a school of hungry eels, she kept seeing those wounds on his neck and doubt crept in.

_You must be wary along your path toward facelessness so that you do not put your trust in the wrong places and your faith in the wrong people._

When the Kindly Man had uttered those words, she had felt that he could not mean her master. To say that _Jaqen_ was the wrong person in which to place her faith had seemed preposterous. But that was before she had been shoved through a portal into a murky, eel-infested canal with her hands and feet bound and her mouth gagged.

As the Cat crept up to her master's door, she thought of all the possible explanations he might give her. _That she hoped he would give her_. The most likely would be that this was a test, ordered by the elders, and that he was there the whole time, knowing she could pass it but prepared to dive in after her if need be. She would still be understandably upset, she decided, but she would see that it was not his fault and that she was never in any real danger. He might also say that it was some trick of her brothers, some ancient initiation ritual of the order, meant to make her realize that she could always count on herself and the skills she had learned here, beneath the roof of the House of Black and White. And, of course, that he was there, prepared to dive in the whole time and rescue her, if need be. He might even say that he had done it as a punishment for her many transgressions, to teach her that there are consequences when an apprentice flagrantly disobeys the orders of the masters and elders, but that he was there, the whole time, ready to dive in after her if need be.

What she _feared_, however, was that he would say nothing; that she would walk through his door and into his cell and he would stare back at her with disbelief and then disappointment, aghast that she was still alive. She steeled herself with a deep breath, drawing her lips together in a hard line, and pushed quickly and quietly through her master's door.

His cell had a small window high on the far wall, and though the clouds mostly hid the moon from sight, a small amount of the soft light filtered through the window, allowing her to see the faintest outline of the furniture scattered around the room. Against the far wall, directly under the window, was the bed. The Cat could see the shadowed figure of a sleeping man atop the mattress. She plucked the knife from the small, secret pocket of her shift and gripped it tightly in her left hand, her right hand feeling the air in front of her, in an effort to prevent her from banging into anything that might wake her master. She crept slowly toward the still figure, barely daring to breathe, her skin tingling with apprehension as she neared the sleeping form of the Lorathi. The girl arrived at the bed, the front of her damp shift brushing against the side of the mattress, and meant to lower her dagger to her master's throat then wake him gently and demand her answers.

Instead, she found herself roughly yanked down and flipped over in one swift move, her back pressed into the mattress, her instinctively uttered cry muffled by a hand over her mouth. Her master's grip on her wrist forced the knife from her hand in the way he had taught her and the blade fell with a dull thud against the soft blanket. His right hand continued pinning her left wrist to the mattress and her right arm was restrained by his left elbow, his left hand staying firmly clamped over her mouth. The Cat felt Jaqen's warm breath against her cheek, and then she detected his faint whisper, a word she did not know but thought sounded like it might be in the language of Asshai. A faint hiss emanated from the side of the bed closest to the door before the candle on the small table at her master's bedside come to life, throwing out its warm light into the chamber. Jaqen's face came into focus, hovering inches above her own.

"To what does a man owe such a pleasure?" he asked, his voice still heavy with sleep but his eyes strangely bright. "It is not every day that a beautiful girl comes to his cell to wake him, though the dagger was hardly necessary."

The Cat breathed heavily through her nose but was unable to answer him with his hand firmly covering her mouth. Jaqen's body was tangled in his sheet and blanket but his hard, bare belly was pressed heavily against her own, the damp shift warming between them.

"A girl is wet," he noted, glancing at the clinging shift, "did you take a bath? It is customary to remove the clothing first, lovely girl. But then, a man knows you have lately struggled with the skills involving the removal of clothes."

His apprentice gave a short, angry snort, signaling her irritation. He narrowed his bronze eyes slightly as he stared into the stormy grey of her own, then set his mouth in a frown and spoke again, his tone no longer suggestive of a jest.

"A man will remove his hand and a girl will speak softly and explain herself, yes?"

She narrowed her eyes in a reflection of his own expression but then gave him a stiff nod. He pulled his hand away from her mouth slightly but kept his apprentice's arms restrained, seemingly not in the mood to chance a tiny fist striking his face. She glared at him, her mind full of anger and confusion and no small amount of fear, and tried to read his face; his eyes. She could find no answer there, so she simply asked what it was that she wanted to know.

"Why did you throw me into the canal, Jaqen?" she said after a moment, sounding bitter.

Her master cocked his head, his white forelock brushing against her ear as he did, tickling her, and she had to suppress the flinch and giggle that rose up in her involuntarily. His face seemed to show genuine confusion, but she did not allow herself to accept it outright, knowing that there was no one more practiced at deceit than a Faceless Man, and there was no one more adept at the art of facelessness than Jaqen H'ghar.

Each stared at the other, waiting. When it became obvious to her mentor that his apprentice did not intend to add more details, he put words to his confusion.

"A man does not understand."

The girl sighed and then returned testily, "It's a simple question, Jaqen. I want to know _why_ you did it."

"What did a man do?" he asked, pushing up further from her so that he could better focus on her face, his hands still pinning hers down, rendering them useless for attacking or defending. She tested her legs for movement but found they were trapped by the weight of his own. She could only move her feet and wiggle her toes, not a very useful thing to have at her disposal at the moment. He frowned at her again and growled his command, "Quit squirming."

She dropped her gaze from his bronze eyes to his neck and saw again the wound there, three healing scratches, parallel marks proving his guilt. She tried to lift her hand to touch the marks, to make her heart believe what her logic was telling her. Her hand remained pinned firmly under Jaqen's iron grip, however, and she was overtaken with such fury that she felt as if it might consume her, turning her to ash even as she remained pressed beneath her master in his own bed. The girl was angry that she was being restrained when _she_ had done nothing wrong. She was angry that she had been thrown (literally) into such a dangerous situation without explanation. She was angry that she was not getting any satisfaction on the matter from her master. She wanted _answers._ She wanted _retribution._ She wanted _to get __up from that damn bed._ She had come here to question _Jaqen_, not to submit to _his_ interrogation. Her helplessness gnawed at her and she became even angrier and more desperate.

A rash plan seized her mind and she acted without thought, engaging her instinct instead. _You have all the instinct you could ever require. Your task is to learn to heed it._ She pushed up from the mattress with her elbows, lifting her shoulders and chest as high as she could. She craned her neck so that she could move her head as close to her master as possible, bringing her lips to his neck. The angry pucker of her mouth softened into a gentle line, her lips parting slightly as she breathed out through them, brushing them against the dried scratches given to her master by the cat; by _his_ Cat. She felt Jaqen go very still and he drew one breath in and held it. The girl closed her eyes, the movement of her lids caressing her mentor with her long lashes, and then she closed her lips over the skin of his neck, trapping a small part of the wounded flesh with her warm mouth, gently clamping his skin and tugging softly at it. The Cat told herself that she _made_ her next breath convincingly ragged and that it had nothing to do with Jaqen's spicy scent clouding her nostrils, a redolent reminder of his nearness and also _who_ he was. She shook off the heady feeling that threatened to overtake her, lest it rob her of her wits, and opened her mouth just enough to expose the tip of her tongue, which she used to slowly trace the path of the innermost scratch, dragging her moist lower lip along his neck as she did. When she found the end of her reach due to his restraining of her, and her mouth had moved as high as it could, she nipped at his flesh, first with her lips and then with her teeth, gently scraping his skin. As she had hoped he would, he loosened his grip on her wrists, flexing his fingers lazily as he pressed her prone forearms gently with his calloused palms. _Quick as a snake,_ the girl snatched her arm from beneath his hand and found her blade, still laying atop the blanket. Her fingers scrabbled, grasping at the dagger desperately. She clutched the hilt firmly in her hand but before she could do any damage with it, her master had wrapped his arms around her in a bear hug, rolling over with her pressed against him, chest to chest, belly to belly, and then threw her to the unforgiving stone below them.

The girl struck the floor with force and her blade was knocked from her hand, skittering across the stones and almost reaching the door on the far wall. She rolled herself over gingerly onto her back, her elbows and knees abraded and bleeding slightly. After resting a minute, she pushed herself up on her forearms, elbows bent, looking up at her master. Jaqen was now seated on the edge of his bed, his sheet and blanket draped around his middle and tangled between his thighs, the rest of his tanned skin completely uncovered. The girl groaned and allowed herself to drop back down flat onto her back, her troubled eyes staring up at the rafters. She placed her hands over her face and breathed noisily in and out, not knowing what else to do.

"Perhaps a girl should assume a man knows _nothing_ and tell him _all,_" her master suggested, but with a tone that illustrated it was much more of a command than the words might imply.

The Cat sighed into her hands and then sat up, drawing her knees to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, the dampness of her shift chilling her now that she did not have her master's warmth pressing against her. He seemed to take pity on her and pulled his blanket free, keeping the sheet for himself, and tossed her the soft wool covering. She wrapped it around her body gratefully and then gave Jaqen a pitiful look, sick with her confusion and worry.

"Tell a man," he urged, this time more softly.

And so she did. She began the story in her dark cell, explaining how she was having difficulty sleeping and became irritated with the press of the knife and leather strap at her thigh.

"A girl sleeps with a knife at her thigh_?_" the Lorathi asked incredulously.

She replied, "Well, as it turned out, it was a good thing."

She told him how she had thrown the knife and it had struck a living target, though she couldn't be sure who she had wounded or where she had hit him. She figured the injury was not too grave as it did not seem that any of her attackers was suffering too greatly and she was fairly sure four men entered the room and four men completed their task. At the mention of _their task_, Jaqen quirked his eyebrow at her.

"I'll get to that," she assured him.

She explained the whole experience of being carried into the lowest levels of the temple and how once she felt the damp air as they descended to the deepest part, she understood what it was that her attackers intended to do with her. As she described being shoved through the door over the canal, her master's grip on the edge of the mattress seemed to tighten. She paused, watching his knuckles turn white but he said nothing, so she continued her tale, reaching the part that had caused her such grief and confusion; the part that had led her to her master's room.

"Once the hood was off," she began, "I was able to look back through the door and I could just make out…"

Her words trailed off and she pulled her lower lip between her teeth, chewing it slowly, her eyes drifting down to the floor and her brow wrinkling as she called up the details of what she had seen, trying to convince herself that what she believed she had witnessed was nothing more than a mistake.

"What was it, lovely girl?" her master's voice gently prodded her.

"I couldn't see any faces, but I could see the neck of the man nearest to the door, standing as close to my eyes as you are now," she told him, and then dropping her voice almost to a whisper and lifting her finger to point toward his neck, added, "and I saw _those _scratches, Jaqen."

At the girl's words, her master sprang up from his bed with a force that startled his apprentice and the look in his eyes left her feeling very cold, despite the thick blanket draped around her shoulders. The Lorathi looked _angry._ He looked as angry as she had ever seen him. No, _angrier._

The girl leaned away from him, instinctively wary, unsure what his intentions were. For a small moment, she thought he _might be_ angry that she had identified him and meant to… _silence_ her? She wasn't sure, but he just seemed so furious and looked to be bursting to act. Without a word, he turned from her, allowing his sheet to drop away as he snatched up the breeches draped over rail at the foot of his bed, pulling them on swiftly as she averted her eyes in embarrassment._ Who sleeps naked?_ she wondered, coloring as she bit her lip again. She then berated herself for her stupidity. _With everything that is going on right now, you think your master's naked arse is something to be concerned with?_

After a moment, Jaqen began pacing the length of the room. It was something he did when he wished to think and he wasn't being completely _faceless_ about it. Her eyes tracked him on his repeating path. He was barefoot, unclad but for breeches, his normally groomed hair mussed and slightly tangled. He was muttering.

"A man did not do this thing, but someone wished for it to appear as if he did," he said quietly, his eyes narrowed dangerously, sweeping along the floor back and forth as if the answer might be found resting on the cool stones. He was speaking more to himself than to his apprentice. "But a girl was hooded. For whose benefit, this ruse? Unless the hood was meant to fall..."

The Cat placed her chin on her knees, her face tilted so that she could watch his pacing, listening for any words he might have that could explain all that befell her that night. She thought to herself that if Jaqen had anything to do with her being tossed into the canal to drown or be eaten (or both), he was doing a fair job of confounding the fact. Her own ogling of him as he paced, practically naked, was doing little to help her own concentration, so she turned her face from him and pressed it against her knees, chewing her lip and willing herself to _know_ the truth.

She thought back to her instinctive reaction when she thought she saw her mentor through the small doorway as she dangled above the canal waters. She had felt _hope_, even _joy_. She was _relieved, _because she knew he would never allow her to come to harm. As it turned out, her relief had been short-lived and her hope misplaced, but it had been her _instinctive_ reaction. The Cat wanted to believe in her master; _did_ believe in her master.

_Do you trust a man?_

_I trust you more than I trust any man alive._

She cleared her mind, no easy task with all that she had learned and endured since Jaqen's return to Braavos, but she did it nonetheless. Her eyes pressed into her knees so hard that she felt in them an aching pain. She exhorted herself to find _stillness_, looking for the _awareness_ that came with it. And then, she had it. She _felt_, and she _knew._

Arya suddenly had the certainty that her master had not done this thing. She felt it in her bones as she did when a bit of knowledge was undeniable but perhaps not completely explainable. Despite how her eyes had informed her, despite what her logic had told her, despite the Kindly Man's warning to her, she knew the truth. She perceived it, almost able to grasp it physically with her hands, the truth a nearly tangible thing now, so real was it in her mind. Her bones were singing to her, resonating with the conviction of her truth. Once the feeling took hold of her, she understood that Jaqen could not have done this thing because if he had, it would mean that her bones were lying to her and if _that_ were possible, then she would be wrong about other things, too; things that were too important for her to risk being _wrong_. Jon was _not_ dead. She could _feel_ him in the same place she could feel the truth about Jaqen. And so she knew.

The Cat lifted her head and saw that her master still paced. He noticed her small movement and it stopped him in his tracks. He gazed down at his apprentice, his hair hanging messily around his face as he squatted in front of her, meeting her eyes.

"A man did not do this thing," he told her, and the truth of what she already knew was apparent in the burning of his bronze eyes.

"I know," she told him simply, then she hesitated, swallowing before adding, "I… I need to tell you something. I didn't tell you what happened after I fell into the canal… how I escaped."

"A man knows."

This confused her, not understanding _what_ Jaqen thought he knew. He assuredly did not know what it was she intended to say. How could he? She had only just accepted the truth of what she could do herself.

"No… I mean, I have to tell you something… about the eels. And, about the cat… The one in the alley by the armory."

Her master gave her a sad smile and stood up, reaching down for her and pulling her up to standing.

"A man knows," he repeated. "And if he knows, he fears others do as well."

The girl tilted her face toward him, her cheeks now gone pale at his words. She thought back to Westeros; to her girlhood and the tales Old Nan had told the Stark children about giants and white walkers and wargs, ideas that the girl had assumed were created for entertainment and to scare children into complying with their bedtime. She recalled particularly how Old Nan had said that once, wargs were revered for their magic but later, they came to be regarded with suspicion, thought of even as demons, and this led to reprisals by the fearful population. Most of the wargs had eventually been slaughtered and those who survived were driven north of the Wall, according to the legends Old Nan recounted.

"Are you worried that there are some in the order who would… _kill_ me because of what I can do?" she whispered, wondering how it was remotely possible that she could evade the murderous intent of a house _full_ of Faceless Men. She swallowed down the small knot in her throat, the physical manifestation of the despair that was trying to overtake her.

"If only it were that simple," her master remarked, his expression grim as he encircled her with his arms protectively.

The girl had witnessed many embraces in her life. She had seen whores embracing men they hoped to bed for their coin in roadhouses and inns and taverns. She had seen sassy kitchen wenches pulled into the arms of drunken knights as they served in the hall of a great lord, or even at a king's feast. She had seen her own lord father demonstrating his ardor for her lady mother by wrapping his strong arms around the red-haired beauty and holding her tight. The embrace of her master was not like any of these. There was no feeling of affection in it, no lust, no emotional deceit meant to garner some reward. It was not some physical declaration of love or thoughtless, drunken action. The Lorathi did not seek to fulfill his own carnal desire. Jaqen held Arya as if to shield her from whatever sinister force he seemed to see coming for her that she could not herself perceive; to hide her from the world and keep her safe. As he pulled her closer, the blanket fell away from her shoulders and drooped halfway down her back. Her master placed his hand between her shoulders, pulling her closer to him, but felt the dampness of her hair and clothes and remarked upon it.

"A girl is still wet."

"I haven't had time to completely dry yet after my midnight swim," she replied sarcastically.

Normally, he would have snorted his amusement or frowned his disapproval at her tone, but his face remained serious and he released her from his embrace, heading for a trunk at the foot of his bed. Lifting the lid, he began rummaging through it and then pulled out one of his thin, white blouses, offering it to her. When she did not take it, not understanding, he gave a mirthless laugh and told her that he could not make her _cleaner_ after her dance with the eels in the muck on the bottom of the canal, but he could at least make her _drier._

"A man will not look," he assured her, as he lifted the shirt to her again. "Besides, he has already seen."

Dropping the blanket to the floor, she growled at him and snatched the shirt from his hand, scampering to a dim corner as Jaqen made a show of turning his back to her. She quickly slipped her filthy shift off and replaced it with the soft, dry blouse, laces at the neck askew. In her state of unease, she dared not fiddle with them, lest she give him even more opportunity to mock her inability to properly manage the fastenings of clothes. The thing reached halfway to her knees, draping gently around her form, but she still felt bare. She scrambled to retrieve the sheet her mentor had discarded earlier as he pulled on his breeches and she wrapped herself in it, covered from neck to toe. Her master turned around and then laughed, accusing her of stealing the one dry coverlet in the room.

"You have soaked a man's blanket and dampened his mattress," he laughed, "and now you deny him his sheet?"

"You can have it back when I leave," she grumbled, starting toward the door to retrieve her dagger from the floor. She did not intend to make the trek back to her cell unarmed.

As she passed the Lorathi, he grabbed her arm, holding her firmly in place.

"You will go nowhere, lovely girl," he purred softly.

She raised her eyebrows at his serious expression and waited for him to tell her further what she must do before she would be allowed to retire to her own chamber.

"A man cannot protect you a whole floor below, as your battle with the eels of the canal has proven. You will sleep here tonight, and tomorrow… A man will find you a place."

"A man will find me a place?" she repeated, not comprehending.

"An assignment. One that will require you leave the temple, for a time. Until a man has discovered the meaning of this plot."

"You want me to _leave_ the temple?" she clarified, not believing. "But, how will I train? How will I prepare myself for the final trial?"

"There are ways. This thing can be done. But you are not safe here just now, sweet child. A man will speak with the principle elder about it in the morning."

"But Jaqen, if I'm _out there_, won't I be even _more_ exposed?"

"Exposure is not the worst thing in this case," he told her. "A girl has her wits, and a girl has her skills. You will be safe enough."

The Cat nodded her acceptance of her master's judgment and then tugged from of his restraint, heading to the door and retrieving her small dagger. She slipped it the leather strap she still wore on her thigh, just beneath the hem of Jaqen's large blouse. Her master shook his head at her, telling her she did not need to remain armed in his chamber. He would protect her from harm.

"The last time I trusted my master to protect me from harm, he dangled me over a canal and then tried to feed me to the eels," she reminded him. "How can I even know that you're… _you_?"

The Lorathi approached his apprentice, tilting his head, his bronze eyes boring into her. When he reached where the girl stood, he placed one hand upon her shoulder and the other he pressed flat against her belly, his warmth seeping deep into her.

"What does a girl's gut tell her?" he asked simply.

She closed her eyes and breathed in deeply, detecting cloves and lemon. She exhaled with a sigh and opened her eyes, the storm in them now calm as she replied, "My gut tells me that you are Jaqen H'ghar."

Her master smiled at her gently and she thought she understood why. She believed him to be pleased that she trusted him; that she understood and accepted his fidelity. He smiled at her gently and she really ascertained nothing; not comprehending that she had named him again and this time, it was without threat; without the shadow of death. This time, it was simply her faith in him that allowed her to claim him; to _make_ him.

_My gut tells me that you are Jaqen H'ghar._

He smiled at her gently and whispered, "Just so."


	27. Chapter 27

**Intrusive A/N: I've been toying with the idea of posting songs I thought might serve as a sort of "theme" for some of the chapters. I've thus far resisted for fear it was simply too "cheesy" but then, as I was joking in some recent PMs, I totally could hear "Mortal Kombat" in my head while Arya was breaking bad on that last eel. Why deprive others of my twisted sense of what makes an appropriate theme song for this story? ;) Another of my hesitations is that none of this story (thus far) has been _inspired_ by music, per se, but as I have gotten more and more _obsessed_ with writing this fic, I will find myself listening to a song on the radio/iPod and think, "Whoa, that sounds just like Gendry is gonna sound when he says…" or "That song really captures the feeling that Jaqen has when…" Sometimes it's straightforward—the lyrics really speak to the mood/emotion/moment. Sometimes it just _sounds_ right. Sometimes it's merely a line or two that strikes a chord (or a chord or two that strikes a line…) I have decided to put a line at the end of any chapter that has a song I think fits it in some way, listing title and artist. Putting it at the end avoids any sort of spoiler for the chapter. Like, if I listed "Willie Nelson: On the Road Again" at the top of the page, I could see someone saying, "OH MAN, now I know Arya is riding an eel back to Westeros! Dammit!" Putting it at the end allows for the avoidance of spoilers and is probably also a little easier to ignore for people who want nothing to do with my questionable musical tastes. I don't plan to use the songs to explain anything further or to give clues about the story, so ignoring them will not put you at any disadvantage. Take it for what it's worth. I will say that after I started writing this story, I realized that Mumford and Sons wrote almost every song (except for _Little Lion Man_) about Jaqen, Arya, or Jaqen _and_ Arya (and there's a few about Gendry, too). Who knew those dudes were such Jaqen/Arya 'shippers?**

**So, to kick us off (and break my own rule by putting this at the beginning of the chapter, but it's okay since it refers to the previous chapters), the theme song for Arya's abduction through the end of chapter 26 is Lupe Fiasco's _Letting Go._**

* * *

An adrenaline release which is triggered in times of great anxiety is a useful thing, especially to an abducted girl who must first avoid drowning, then must find a way to _not_ be eaten by eels, and finally must confront an elite assassin to determine if he has masterminded or participated in a particular plot which results in her nearly drowning and being eaten by eels. The effect of the adrenaline on the body is beneficial for many reasons during such trying circumstances. The heartbeat quickens, pumping blood to organs having great need of it, improving their functionality. The breathing becomes more rapid, allowing a larger quantity of air into the lungs and feeding that same blood, making it more effective for those organs (though, in those cases where one finds oneself standing at the bottom of a canal under fifteen feet of water, rapid breathing is perhaps a less useful effect). The focus becomes acute, supporting greater concentration. Pain fades, allowing for proper use of limbs and muscles despite injury, possibly even increasing the strength in them. However, these temporary benefits will fade once the danger triggering the adrenaline has passed, leaving the person who experienced the stress and the resultant fleeting adrenaline rush feeling rather exhausted. Or, in the Cat's case, in a state of near-collapse.

The girl stood swaying before her master, wearing his thin shirt, wrapped snugly in his sheet as she dimly registered that it smelled like him, and struggled to keep her eyes open.

"Come," Jaqen commanded, leading her toward his bed. Her unquestioning obedience in following her master made him wonder if he ought to only attempt instructing the girl when she was near to a faint. She might not be any use with a blade then, but she was certainly less taxing on his nerves. He tugged at her sheet and she only half-heartedly resisted him. Once it was unwound from her body, he bade her lie down and covered her with the sheet he had just reclaimed. She wiggled herself closer to the edge of the mattress to avoid the damp spot she had created when she was flipped onto the bed by the master she had believed to be soundly sleeping when she entered his cell.

_Bloody Faceless Men and their stupid keen senses _she thought as she remembered the Lorathi throwing her onto his mattress and restraining her as easily as if she had been a mere child with no training whatsoever. Her mentor turned to retrieve his chair from its place against the wall near the door and carried it silently toward his bed, placing it near her head and dropping into it with his typical ease and grace. His casually reclining form demonstrated no small amount of that Lorathi swagger the so often irked his apprentice.

"Are you going to sleep in that chair?" she questioned him with a yawn, turning onto her side to face him.

"A man will not sleep."

The Cat managed a convincingly skeptical look before covering another yawn with the back of her hand and ruining the effect. She slipped her hands between the pillow and her head, resting her cheek on them and creating a picture of youth and innocence that tugged painfully at something inside of her master. He sat back further in his chair, reminding himself that his _innocent_ apprentice had seen much to rob her of her naivety and had herself taken many lives in her short years, some of those of her _own_ choosing and not merely in the service of their god. And yet… And yet…

Her accusing voice interrupted his thoughts.

"Aren't you going to at least put on some clothes?" the girl snapped peevishly.

"Does a man's naked flesh stop a girl from closing her eyes and dreaming of her wolf?" he chuckled. When she said nothing, he continued to needle her, adding, "Besides, you are wearing a man's favorite shirt. If you wish to return it, a man will gladly dress for you."

She puckered her mouth and wrinkled her nose, quite like a spoiled child being thwarted from doing something she expects to be allowed to do by a nursemaid she is usually able to cow and bend to her will. Her petulance made her master grin, which, of course, fueled her consternation. She picked at the untied laces of her blouse neck, scrutinizing them with a critical eye.

"If _this_ is your favorite shirt, I think it's obvious that you have little interest in fashion," she replied haughtily. "How do you expect to impress bouncing tavern wenches and lonely ladies wearing _this?_"

"A girl does not like a man's blouse? How strange. A man finds it perfect for the setting off of his _bronze_ eyes," Jaqen replied in his irritatingly carefree way. "Besides, it is not clothes a man uses for the impressing of ladies. _Or_ bouncing tavern wenches."

Her mouth dropped open as she sat up slightly from the bed, propping on her shoulder and elbow, meaning to say _something_ stinging to her master; something to put him in his place. With her movements, however, she felt the strain of her swim in the canal starting to stiffen her muscles and gritted her teeth against the pain. Her pause allowed Jaqen to continue his teasing of her.

"A girl did not seem too concerned with a man's clothing earlier this evening," he reminded her. "In fact, the last time a man recalls wearing no clothes _at all_, he found a beautiful girl in his bed, uninvited."

"But… you know what… I came here to _threaten_ you… You _know_ why…" she sputtered, finding herself more flustered than she could understand, adding weakly, "I meant to _threaten_…"

"Just so," he agreed. "You threatened a man to the point of abject terror with your lips and your _tongue."_

She drew in a short breath and bit her lip, looking mortified as she fell back onto the pillow, turning over to bury her burning face into its cool surface. She found herself wondering miserably how it was possible to love a man and hate a man so much, all at once. She heard him pulling the chair closer to the bed but did not look up. His voice came as a whisper, close enough to tickle her ear.

"Oh, and your _teeth_. Let us not forget those."

The girl's snarl was muffled by the pillow but she finally turned over and glared at her mentor, saying, "_This_ is why I sleep with a knife!"

He leaned back from her and smiled fondly at his apprentice, holding his hands up before him in a gesture of surrender, saying, "Do not scratch at me with your little claws, ferocious Cat. A man has been scarred enough by your hand."

This small, conciliatory remark changed the Cat's mood completely. It drew the girl's mind back to the alley in the Armorers District when she had merely wished for her master to release her after he had pinned her against the exterior alley-side wall of Meerios' shop, having learned of her efforts at spying on him. Well, it more than a _wish, _she supposed. She had seen the cat and _willed _it to attack him. She hadn't meant to hurt Jaqen, but in truth, she hadn't really thought it out. She wished to be free, she saw the cat, and she projected her desire for freedom upon the animal. She had _felt_ herself inside of the cat's head, just briefly, directing the feline to action, and then she was gone, almost as if she had never been there in his mind at all. This sort of thing had happened before, but she had never been able to put a name to it until she found herself opening her jaw full of razor-sharp teeth in the canal, gnawing the bonds from around her own wrists. Before, when she had used a cat's eyes to watch the Kindly Man attack her during her blind trial and later, when she had used a cat's ears to listen to Meerios' conversation with her master, she had found a sort of logical explanation for how she knew what she knew. She had experienced minor episodes of seeing things she should not be able to see from her vantage point, usually while staring out at the water from the docks, seeing ships in the bay as if she were a bird flying overhead. The girl had mostly assumed she had a very good imagination for picturing things, or, barring that, had merely shrugged, figuring that some things simply weren't knowable and her uncanny ability to see and hear certain things was one of those mysterious unknowns. She was never too bothered by it. Perhaps there was even an element of denial to her lack of understanding. But when she felt herself in the eel… when she _pushed herself_ into the eel, it had suddenly become clear to her.

Arya turned from her side so that she was resting on her back, staring up at the rafters as she chewed her lip. As he had done once before, her master reached for her mouth and tugged the abused lip from between her teeth with his thumb.

"With all the worrying a girl has been doing lately, it is a wonder she has a bottom lip left to chew," Jaqen observed. "You may have want of that lip later. A girl never knows when she will need to drag it along a man's neck to terrify him in to admitting his guilt in a plot he knows nothing about. Stop gnawing at it."

She almost rolled her eyes at him but thought the better of it and instead asked, "Do you think… Do you suppose when I dream of Nymeria, I'm actually _with_ her? Am I in Westeros when I sleep? It feels so real…" she told him as she stared at the flickering shadows of the rafters cast by the candle. She was thinking of a memory from long ago, something she had always considered a dream, but now she wasn't so sure. Had she drug her mother from the water? Is that how Lord Beric was able to revive her? Had she worn Nymeria's skin and pulled Catelyn Stark from the river, leading to the birth of Lady Stoneheart? It seemed strange to think it but that did not make it any less true; Arya's mother had created Arya, and in a way, Arya had also created her mother. Neither of them were close to their original forms. Whether their current iterations were an improvement over those earlier versions of themselves or not was likely a matter open to interpretation.

"Some part of a girl existing inside of her wolf, half a world away? A man believes this to be the truth," her mentor replied. "This is a very powerful gift."

"A _gift_?" she questioned doubtfully. She frowned at that, still not looking at him. With the history of wargs in Westeros and the fact that her own abilities might somehow be at the center of whatever it was that had just happened to her, she wasn't so sure she could think of this thing as a gift. She mulled it over, what she was, finally acknowledging, "I'm a warg." It was the first time she had said it out loud.

"A _warg,_" her master repeated thoughtfully. It was a Westerosi term not often uttered in Essos. Across the Narrow Sea, most of the people of the Seven Kingdoms no longer believed that wargs were real, thinking of them as exaggerated beings of legend. The modern Westerosi were too enlightened for such nonsense now. In the Free Cities, the local terms were some variant of the phrase "shape shifter" but even that was not often heard, as not many believed in such things even here. Or, at least they hadn't before dragons reentered the world. But that term wasn't exactly right either. Neither _warg_ nor _shape shifter_ accurately described what it was that the girl could do. Her abilities seemed very advanced, especially considering that she had not been given any instruction or structured practice in using them. Jaqen had only witnessed her use the cat in the alley near the docks, but she had not seemed to leave herself at all. He had suspected her of possessing a sort of talent based on what the principle elder had related to the Lorathi about the girl discovering that he was attacking her during her blind trial. The elder had made some off-hand remark about the temple cat being the only other witness to her feat and that had started Jaqen's mind to turning. The wolf dreams had also given him cause to consider what she might be doing, but what he had seen in the alley had truly stunned him. It had seemed to her master that just Arya's merest whim had sent the animal into action. After that, He had become convinced that with training, she could influence _men_ with her mind; by a simple projection of her will. He feared this would be the thing that would make her immeasurably valuable to a host of others, some of noble intent, some driven by darker purposes, and that they would seek to take her from him and control her. She might be abducted by someone who would torture her to get what they wanted and the thought made him anxious in a way he had forgotten he could even _be_. But even if it were a _kindly_ person who exploited her, she would not be happy in this role. It mattered not if they were fashioned from gold or iron, chains were still chains.

The Cat yawned again, bending her neck and touching her chin to her chest, feeling the stretch. Inhaling deeply, she dropped her head back and made a small groaning noise. Her eyelids were heavy but she seemed to be fighting to keep them open, thinking that there was too much to decide with her master and that she couldn't afford to sleep. Jaqen saw her attempts to remain awake and laughed, telling her she needed to close her eyes and get what rest she could.

"There is nothing further you can do just now."

"Well, what about you?" she asked. "If there is nothing more to be done, shouldn't you go to sleep?"

"A man said there was nothing further _you _could do. There is thinking yet left for a man," he explained, not adding that he intended to keep watch, not sure if there might be another attempt to harm his apprentice that night. The Lorathi waved his hand over the flame of his candle and it died in an instant.

"You _really_ have to show me how this lighting and extinguishing of candles is done," she murmured sleepily.

"A man will teach you everything you need to know, lovely girl," her master promised in his Lorathi purr. The girl simply nodded tiredly and allowed her eyelids to close finally without protest. Once she surrendered herself to her exhaustion, she fell asleep as easily as a well-fed babe.

She was so exhausted. She had been moving almost nonstop for two days, ever east. She was meant to be at the inn, with the great knight who shared her sorrow, she knew, but not yet. She had arrived too soon, but then, when she thought of the children being attacked, she realized that perhaps she had been just in time. And then, her little cousins had feasted. But now, she was drawn to the east, in search of food and… _something else._ She had no word for the old magic that pulled her closer to the land where she had been a captive once, when she walked on two legs and wore a gown of blood, a long time ago. Though she could not name it, she _felt_ it, and so she pushed on, and her cousins followed.

The moon was hidden behind the clouds but she did not need it to see. Her eyes were keen even in the dark, but she had learned how to move to sounds, and how to _see_ without _seeing_ in the House where she sometimes lived; where the dead were both an offering and a feast not for wolves but for other creatures.

Wolves were known to move up to fifty miles in a day as they ranged for food but at the grueling pace she was enforcing, they had covered half again as many miles each day. The pull to the magic was too strong to ignore and she felt a need to reach her destination. But even a direwolf driven with purpose must needs eat, her cousins even more so. Their hunger would slow their journey but it could not be helped.

She stopped and raised her snout into the air, sniffing. There was a smell, faint, but growing stronger. The smell meant _food._ She began stalking silently toward it, her fluid movement carrying her over the fallen leaves and brown grass as gracefully as a water dancer and then she was gliding, pushing languidly through the murky depths, dragging her scales along the living thing she was driven to eat. It was soft and still and warm, _so warm for the daughter of corpses_, and it smelled like meat. She opened her powerful jaw and there were a thousand thousand teeth, made of Valyrian steel, rows upon rows of perfectly pointed daggers straining up from her mouth, seeking to tear chunks from her flesh. Her stomach was so empty that it pained her and she could not stop herself from eating as her gown of blood billowed up around her waist. She tore and ravaged the soft, white flesh even as she screamed and screamed and screamed…

* * *

When his apprentice had finally surrendered to her exhaustion, Jaqen merely watched her for a long while in the faint moonlight, feeling a satisfaction at her slow, even breaths. Knowing her fatigue, he felt some relief that she was able to rest under his watchful eye, even if he himself would have no respite tonight. His mind was buzzing far too much for him to succumb to the lure of sleep, anyway.

He recalled that he had first seen her that morning in the long corridor outside of the training room, and had sent her into the chamber to practice with her brothers. Might one of them have been involved in this deed? He doubted it very much, or, if so, it would have been at the direction of someone with more authority than they themselves had been granted. He could not imagine either the cunning Westerosi or his bear-like brother daring to invoke his displeasure by attacking his apprentice. Later, after his council meeting, he had sparred with the girl himself, and then had taught her that minor bit of blood magic. He had meant to give her some added ability to protect herself but he had not thought the protection she would need would be from those among their own order. When she found herself threatened, it was the knife she fell back to, but her newly acquired paralyzing spell would not have been of great benefit against four Faceless Men anyway. The Lorathi closed his eyes and called up the memory of teaching his apprentice how to find the spot she would need in order to use the spell effectively, wanting to be certain she was competent with the skill. Instead, he found himself contemplating the memory of her bare, white shoulder, and the healing bruise that discolored her arm.

_"Say the words," he had told her, wanting to be sure she could accurately produce the sounds. The spell was useless if not done correctly and he intended for her to master this and much else before she would leave his supervision, an event that would occur all too soon._

_"An'ha assab dami?" she had tried, and her accent was perfect. Her tongue was made for languages, he had thought as the sounds easily dripped from her lips. Later, when she crept upon him in his chamber and found herself subdued by her master's superior strength, she would try to show him that it was made for other things as well._

_"Yes. In the common tongue, it would be akin to saying 'to stop the blood and nerves.' Say them again," he prodded, wanting to know that she had committed the words to her memory but wanting to hear her utter them in her naturally beguiling way even more. There was a part of him that knew this was folly, but he ignored the warning and gave in to this small, harmless temptation._

_She did as she was bid and then asked him, "Why are they important?"_

_His did not look at her while he let the sound of her voice murmuring the foreign words fade away from his ears. As he cast his eyes down, he found the fading bruises of her upper arm, realizing they must have come from her first day of sparring with him while using her heavier sword. He had wrapped his fingers around her arm and used his thumb to stroke the injured flesh. He felt one corner of his mouth lift involuntarily upward. He could sense her vexation rolling off of her in accusing waves and he knew she thought he was enjoying the memory of her pain. She was still so young, he had to remind himself, that she never guessed that there could be other reasons motivating her treatment by others. She only felt the insults and derision, never the admiration. He did nothing to correct her perception even though he had been smiling the smile of a proud master. He saw those bruises from a few short days before and realized that when they had only just sparred, he had not landed a single blow like to leave such a mark. Her blade skills were simply astonishing and progressing at an unseemly rate. If only she had been started younger, as he was… but that was a consequence of being born the wrong sex, at least in Westeros. She was just fortunate that she had come upon Syrio when she did._

_Fortunate, indeed._

Arya's deep, even breaths became more sporadic, almost sounding like short sniffs, and her sleep was suddenly much more fitful. She began mumbling, which drew Jaqen from his memories. _She dreams of her wolf_ her master thought, leaning forward to watch her and listen.

"Mmm, east," she said, barely articulate. "Tired." Her hands flinched a bit, stirring the sheet that had been pulled up to her neck, exposing her ivory throat and the discolored evidence of his fingers that lined her neck. He regarded the marks without remorse. The lesson was an important one and if he had to bruise her again to make that point, he would do it. He didn't quite understand her lack of caution when it came to her _Kindly Man_, but he intended for her to learn to be wary. As he watched, she swallowed and muttered something about an inn; _going back_ to an inn. He thought of the inn near the Purple Harbor, just across from the Moon Pool.

"East, cousins, to the waters," she muttered. "To eat."

The girl seemed to quiet then and Jaqen leaned back in his chair. He began thinking on what assignment for her would make the most sense. He wanted to give her a new face, one that no one else would know about. Of course, it would not be possible to keep it from the principle elder, but that could not be helped. If he could find her a place in a busy section of Braavos with a new face, she should be able to keep herself safe and he would be able to check on her frequently, furthering her training just as well outside of the temple. Aside from his concerns about her physical safety, her master wondered if getting his lovely girl outside of the temple walls might allow for him to help her hone her unique _talent_ more freely.

He was considering what that might mean for her when she suddenly began to toss in his bed, twisting the sheet and kicking at it. The assassin could not see well enough in the dark to tell if her features were those of a girl dreaming or if she were in some sort of distress, so he uttered the words that would give the room light and the candle on the table next to his bed flamed to life. He blinked twice to adjust his eyes to the brightness just as the girl's tossing turned to thrashing with speed and then she was _screaming_; screaming as if she were in real _pain,_ her eyes still closed but her face twisted into a harrowing mask of agony. Jaqen flew from his chair and was on her in an instant, lifting her from the mattress and shaking her. In her sleep, she fought him, even as she screamed and then he felt a sharp pain over his left bicep and realized she had _bitten _him. He pushed her back, holding her upright and peering into her face intently, saying, "Arya! Arya!" The girl's eyes were just fluttering open and his blood was smeared on her chin and lower lip. She was gasping shallowly and shaking a bit when she looked into his eyes and recognition seemed to calm her.

"Jaqen?"

Feeling the wet on her chin, she wiped at it with the back of her hand and then noted the blood. Her eyes widened with shock and a bit of fear that her master did not understand. She pushed herself completely upright, pulling free of the Lorathi's hands, frantically patting her belly, her sides, turning her head back and forth as if inspecting herself, expecting to find some sort of wound to explain the blood. She yanked at the neck of the blouse, pulling it away from her chest and looking down at herself. Seeing nothing but her own fair flesh and noting that it was intact, she breathed deeply and slumped back against the pillows. Her eyes turned toward her master and it was then that she noted the injury to his arm. She flew up again and gave him a look that seemed a mix of apprehension and apology as her hands grasped at his forearm.

"Oh, no, I'm so sorry!" she cried. "I did that? I didn't mean it! I didn't know…"

"Shhh,' he calmed her, "do not grieve, lovely girl. You merely scratched a man."

The girl's brow remained furrowed and Jaqen raised his hand to her temple, attempting to smooth the wrinkle from between her eyes with his thumb, saying, "It is not the first time you have done so."

Biting at her lip a little, the girl pulled at the sheet over her lap fretfully, grasping a fistful of the cloth and using it to dab at her master's wound. The bleeding had mostly stopped and when she wiped away the blood, she could see the impression of her teeth, a perfect oval of raw crimson and bruising, imprinted upon his tanned flesh. Suddenly, she seemed to realize that she had ruined his sheet, looking at the blood stained cover and then allowing it to fall back into her lap sheepishly. She turned her eyes up to her mentor and stared at him for a long moment, willing herself to abandon her unseemly distress and fear; willing herself to be _still_.

"It was just a dream," she said as if to convince herself, some of her tension seeming to leave her as she exhaled after the observation.

"A girl dreamed of her wolf," her master stated. "Did you think a man was prey?"

"No. I mean, yes, I dreamed of my wolf, but _that_ was no dream," the girl muttered, waving at her mentor's arm, the bite mark reminding her of the yawning eel mouth opening again and again. "That was a _nightmare_. _I_ was the prey."

She shuddered, then cursed herself for a craven, aggravated that she had allowed a stupid dream to affect her so. Jaqen was sitting at her side, facing her, his look of concern making her feel worse about the fact that she had _bitten_ him. She closed her eyes and rubbed at her forehead as she bowed it, feeling both exhausted and shaken all at once. The Cat felt her master rise from the bed and he returned to his trunk, opening and pulling something from within it-another blouse, this one dark. He pulled it over his head, the long sleeves now covering the offending mark on his arm. After he closed trunk lid, he stood at the foot of the bed, his arms crossed over his now covered chest, looking at the acolyte in the soft glow of the candle light. Self-conscious under her mentor's gaze, the girl sat up a bit straighter and then moaned a little at the ache in her shoulders.

"Is a girl in pain?" her master questioned her.

"My shoulders are just getting stiff from the swim," she replied dismissively. "I guess it's been a while since I swam for any great length. I suppose I can work it out by sparring on the morrow."

Jaqen returned to her side and indicated that she should move over and allow him more room to sit. She did as she was asked and her master sat on the edge of the bed, once again facing her as he spoke softly to her.

"Does a girl remember the first trick of the Asshai healers a man showed her?"

"Do you mean when you nearly incapacitated me with blinding pain and then I stopped feeling so sick at the inn?" she retorted sarcastically. "I think I recall it."

"There is something that may be done for these muscle aches," he told her, choosing to ignore her rancor.

The Cat looked at him strangely and then narrowed her eyes as she said, "Are you telling me that you can pinch a nerve or poke a muscle and make my soreness disappear? That the intense pain I was in after you first beat me around the training room while saddling me with _two_ swords could have been_ completely avoided_? Are you saying that you made me soak in a bath _not_ because it was the only way to soothe my aches but because you wanted to humiliate me while you told me about the dragons?" By the time she had finished her questioning, it had become a tirade and she was seething.

"A man believes that sometimes there is a great lesson on pain," Jaqen replied simply, betraying no emotion.

She could barely contain her wrath, spitting, "A great _lesson_... A lesson in _pain?_ I think the_ lesson_ is that you're a twisted monster!"

"So, a girl does _not_ wish for a twisted monster to ease her stiffness?" he probed for clarification. "Perhaps she sees the lesson in pain as well."

The Cat folded her arms and gave him a decidedly pouty look, wanting whatever relief he could offer her but not wanting to admit it to her master. Her stubbornness both amused and vexed him, a combination of feelings he found himself having during the majority of their interactions. At least, that's what he felt when he wasn't_ worried_ for her, which, he noted with uneasiness, was more and more often lately. He shook his head at her obstinacy and sighed. How her father had not beaten her to death before she ever had the chance to come to King's Landing and then cross the Lorathi's path when she was Yoren's special charge, he would never know. _Maybe she was less stubborn as a younger child, _he thought to himself, but somehow, he doubted that was the case. Eddard Stark must have been an exceptionally patient man.

"Move forward, willful child," her master instructed her, sliding in behind her as she made a show of being reluctant to do as she was bid. He pushed at her back, forcing her to lean over her own lap and then brushed her hair over one shoulder. He placed the fingers of one hand at several points of her posterior neck while digging the thumb and forefinger from his other hand into her shoulder. At first, he simply kneaded the spots gently, but from her previous experience with these manipulations from Asshai, the girl was certain she was on the cusp of a moment of intense pain and so kept her shoulders and neck tense. After a few minutes of this, Jaqen slipped the hand at her neck around the front of her, resting his forearm against her throat and using it to pull her back to him, whispering in her ear.

"A girl must relax," he murmured softly and then pushed her forward into her previous position. He replaced his fingers on the spots he had touched before.

The Cat tried to relax, but found it difficult with her master putting his hands all over her and her anticipation of the blinding pain to come. As if reading her mind and wanting to express how ridiculous he found her thoughts, Jaqen grabbed her shoulders and shook her a little in irritation with her disobedience, and then once again returned his fingers to their positions.

"This is meant to help you," her mentor muttered, sounding as if he spoke through gritted teeth.

The girl took a deep breath in and then released it, allowing her tight muscles to loosen. Just as she did, her mentor dug his fingers into their various spots, boring into the muscles underneath the skin on which his fingers rested, and she suddenly felt... relaxed. It was as if the muscles had simply released and the stiffness and aching were instantly gone. Beyond that, the girl found that she felt less frustrated with... _everything_. She was no longer vexed that her master had not performed this ritual when she was in so much pain after her first time sparring with the bastard sword. She was no longer worried about why she had been tossed into the canal. She was no longer bothered by her nightmare and the guilt she felt for wounding her master while she slept and dreamed. She moaned again, but this time, it was with the satisfaction of surrendering to her contentment and weariness rather than with pain. She soon dropped back against Jaqen's chest, her eyelids heavy and her mind _unaccountably _calm. The Cat nestled her head under her master's chin without a thought of awkwardness, having no cares, and was asleep just a short moment later.

The Lorathi dipped his face to brush the top of her dark hair with his nose, finding the mane still slightly damp. Somehow she did not smell of the canal, though. She smelled like _herself_. There was the tang of steel about her, as always, and something of a green meadow full of clover after a warm rain, which was a scent he had exclusively come across in Westeros during the long summer. And there was another element, something he couldn't put a name to, but to him it had the scent of freedom and innocence and just… _Northerness_. Were he blindfolded in a room full of women, he could find his apprentice by the unmistakable perfume of her very Northerness on her.

Arya turned to the side, burrowing chin into her master's chest a little, and he shifted slightly so that he could rest more comfortably and accommodate the girl in his arms. She seemed so small and fragile, though he told himself that in this lovely girl's case, looks were most deceiving. _Small, yes, but fragile? _He smirked a little to himself, thinking of the Bear's bloody nose and the Westerosi boy's swollen wrists as they scurried away from the training room. But then he recalled what had brought her into his chamber in the first place and he felt less certain about her ability to take care of herself. As he thought of her shivering in her wet shift, he pulled her slight frame into himself tighter, clenching his jaw. Someone had meant for the girl to meet her end at the bottom of the dark channel. Either that, or someone knew _exactly_ what she was capable of and arranged to have a demonstration of her unique abilities in a life-or-death setting. Just at the moment, Jaqen wasn't sure which scenario he feared most.

* * *

**_Volcano_****-**technically Damien Rice but I like the Phillip Phillips version for this. Sue me. Wait, don't sue me. Just enjoy whichever version of **_Volcano _**that you want and I'll do the same.


	28. Chapter 28

Sunlight filtered into the chamber from the small, high window and as the dark receded from the room, the Cat's eyes blinked several times, opening to see a strange scene. _Where am I?_ the girl thought, confused. It took a moment for her to recognize that this was her master's chamber rather than her own and when the reality of her location set in, she bolted upright, clutching the sheet to her chest, looking around wildly. _Where was he?_

She found herself all alone in the quiet cell and she did not know where Jaqen had gone. Her memories from the night before came flooding back and she inspected herself to discover that she was, indeed, wearing her master's blouse and had slept in it. Desperate to not be found where she was and seen in such a state, either by the Lorathi or anyone else, she sprang from the bed, found her wadded, filthy shift, now mostly dry but _completely _grubby, and snatched it up from the floor. She couldn't bring herself to put it back on, not wishing to feel the chill or the damp against her skin as it was too reminiscent of her close encounter with the eels, both in the canal and in her nightmare. The girl decided her master could do without his _favorite_ blouse for a bit longer as she padded to the door and opened it. She quickly stuck her head through the entryway and peered down the passage in both directions. Seeing nothing, she stepped out of Jaqen's chamber and into the cool of the masters' corridor. As she pulled the door closed quietly behind her, the Cat saw the laundress and her young helper doing the same, just down the passageway from her. They were exiting another of the masters' chambers, sheets and blankets in hand.

_Laundry day? Seven hells!_ she groused inwardly as the women looked up and met her eyes. The younger of the two actually yelped and dropped her armload of linens to the dark, stone floor in her surprise. The Cat knew the servants by sight but did not know their names, as they only came into the temple once every few weeks to perform this small service. The apprentice rarely ever crossed their path. All three of the women were frozen in the corridor, staring at one another, saying nothing. Then, the laundress sniffed and began fussing at her helper in Braavosi, calling her a stupid girl and telling her to pick up the linens. The girl quickly complied and this seemed to break the spell paralyzing the Cat. She lifted her chin slightly with as much dignity as she could muster and then hurried along her way as if she belonged there and there was nothing strange about her attire. She passed the women who greeted her politely, bobbing their heads slightly to her, but with perhaps a whiff of suspicion in their voices and the hint of an accusation in their eyes. As she rounded the corner, she could hear them whispering as they moved to the next room, her master's, to continue their work.

The Cat's bare feet flew along the passage until she came to the door leading to the stairwell which would take her back to her own cell. Skipping down the steps two at a time, she tried to push away the thought that the laundresses were the biggest gossips in all of Braavos. _Don't be ridiculous_ she told herself. _You don't know everyone in Braavos. There are bound to be louder mouths than theirs._ As she burst from the stairwell into the dim passage that would lead to her own door, she felt a small prickle of anticipation. She hadn't been back to her room since she had been unceremoniously drug from under her bed and trussed up like a goose ready to be roasted in an oven. Would she find any evidence of the deed, or would _they _have come back to clean up and hide what had occurred? And who were _they_, anyway? Someone with a neck wounded just like Jaqen's? That would be easy enough to spot. Or someone made up to appear to have wounds? Harder to spot, obviously. Could there have been some glamour involved? That would mean the perpetrator would have to be a master or priest. Acolytes did not possess such power. The secret of a glamoured face was reserved for those who had completed their final trial.

_Soon,_ she thought.

Silently approaching her door, the girl found her heart had begun to pound. She could not account for it. She wasn't afraid; this did not feel like fear. It felt like… like… Her face was pinched in concentration, trying to discover what her gut was trying to tell her. She actually placed the flat of one hand over her belly as her master had done in the night when he asked her what her gut was telling her about his identity. Her gut spoke to her and her features smoothed themselves, her face becoming passive as she moved her hand from her belly to reach it toward her thigh. The girl slid the small dagger from the leather sheath she had left wrapped around her thigh despite her master's assurance that she would need no weapon in his chamber. She blew out a slow, steady breath and wrapped her fingers lightly on her door handle.

_Someone was in her cell_.

She burst through the door, entering the chamber with her elbow bent out to her side, her arm crossing her body as her fist curled around the hilt of her knife, the point of the steel glinting dangerously just before her right shoulder. Her eyes scanned the small cell quickly, locating her intruder in no time. He hadn't even the decency to look surprised at her having caught him, his face not showing the faintest hint of guilt affecting his handsome features. Her master sat in her chair, reclining with an almost _bored _look on his face, one leg crossed broadly over the other, one ankle resting against the other knee. He was twirling a small dagger in one hand as his other hand rested casually against the top of his rich leather boot leg, laid horizontally in front of him.

"A girl slept late today," the Lorathi purred, still twirling the blade as he met the narrowed eyes of his apprentice. She had not yet lowered her steel. "Come in, little Cat, lest others see you in such _unfashionable_ attire."

"What are you _doing_ here, Jaqen?" the Cat hissed, closing her door and stepping further into the room. Slowly, she brought her dagger down and slipped it back into the sheath strapped to her thigh.

"A man feared for his favorite shirt. The last time a girl tried to take it off, she nearly ruined the neck," he replied, a small smirk becoming more evident as he spoke. "A man is happy to assist you, if you have need."

The Cat demonstrated her best attempt at restraint, merely rolling her eyes at her mentor's provocation, and crossed the small space in silence on her bare feet. She sat on the edge of her bed nearest her master and pinned him down with her gaze.

"Why are you _really_ here, Jaqen?" she tried again.

"A man suspects for the same reason a girl is here. Well, aside from the need to change his clothing. As you can see, a man is appropriately attired for the hour. Although, if a girl were to simply belt that blouse and slip on her boots…"

"_Jaqen_," she growled.

"Why do you ask when you already know the answer?" her master chided her. "Of course this place must be checked for any clue as to who did this thing last night."

"Did you find anything?" the Cat demanded.

The dagger he was twirling came to a sudden stop and he deftly flipped it around so that he was cradling the blade in his palm, offering her the hilt as he replied, "Only this." She took it and examined it briefly.

"It's mine," she said. "The one I threw. I guess whoever I hit pulled it out and left it."

"Not quite," Jaqen corrected. "A man found it clean and sitting innocently on a girl's table. This room has been inspected, top to bottom. No blood droplets were found anywhere."

"That's strange. Why would they bother cleaning up after themselves so thoroughly?"

"A man suspects they must know what he can do with their blood."

"What _can_ you do with their blood?"

"Something very useful, lovely girl."

* * *

With all of the intrigue of the morning and her delay in dressing thanks to her room being invaded by an elite assassin investigating a strange midnight incident, the Cat missed her breakfast. When Jaqen left her, he informed the girl that he was going to speak with the Kindly Man about an assignment for her. He thought he had found just the thing but did not wish to speak with her further about it until it was settled with a certainty. Her master instructed her to dress and eat and then wait for him in the courtyard.

"Armed," he clarified. She snorted, giving him a look that said _do I look daft?_

"Always," she replied.

"And do not wad a man's blouse," he added with fake gravity, making his expression stern. "A man has seen how a girl treats her clothes."

"I'll fold it with all the care and neatness it deserves," she assured him, her voice as sweet as honey. "Shall I leave it with your petticoats?"

"What does a girl even know of a _petticoat_?" her master scoffed. "If she cannot manage a simple blouse, a man cannot imagine her attempting to wear a dress or real ladies' underthings."

She gave him a sour look, hating how he always managed to turn her jests around on her, overcome with the desire to defend herself though she knew it only gave him more weapons with which to tease her.

"I don't _like_ stupid ladies' underthings or dresses," she spat. "Whoever designed such clothing is an _idiot_. How can anyone fight in those ridiculous outfits?"

"It is not fighting that most ladies are concerned with," Jaqen reminded her. "That is only you, lovely girl."

She shrugged her indifference to the preferences of _most ladies_. Her master gave her a small smile and rose from his place, putting his hand lightly on her shoulder as he did, looking down into her wide, grey eyes.

"The courtyard," he reiterated. "A man will be no longer than an hour." He left her sitting there, bound for his meeting with the principal elder. The Cat changed into her robe of black and white, leaving her master's shirt wadded at the foot of her bed (_defiance!) _and left for the kitchen, meaning to sweet-talk Umma out of some leftovers. When she entered the kitchen, the cook was there alone. The woman barely glanced up at her then returned to her work, kneading the dough she would soon leave to rise in time to bake for the midday meal.

"I didn't think there were any Cats scheduled to help in the kitchen today," the woman remarked, and there was a hard edge to her voice that the girl was able to pick up.

"I'm just here to pilfer any of the breakfast that wasn't eaten," the girl returned lightly, moving across the kitchen in a carefree way but remaining wary. _Something was afoot_.

"Humph," the cook muttered, punching at the dough rather harder than was strictly necessary. "I'm not surprised that you missed breakfast. Up late, were you?"

The Cat's skin prickled uncomfortably. _Did the cook know anything of the plot to drown her? _Spying a tray of cool biscuits, the girl scraped up the remnants of the fig jam she found in a saucer onto two of them and began munching thoughtfully. She would need to approach this carefully if she hoped to get any useful information out of the cook without raising her suspicion. The girl was not concerned about the older woman's possible _involvement_ in the plot, but she also knew that her loyalties lay with those in the power structure of the House of Black and White and _not_ with some lowly acolyte, no matter how fond of the Cat the cook might be. Additionally, the girl couldn't be sure how _public_ the perpetrators of the plot meant for their actions to be. Telling the cook too much might be dangerous for the woman.

"I was up rather late," the girl admitted, careful to keep her tone noncommittal. "But, as you see, I'm well, considering all that happened…"

"_All that happened_," the woman grumbled, her tone almost _mocking_. "As if you had nothing to do with it, like it just _happened_ to you."

The girl's shock was plain on her face. Was Umma of the opinion that being bound and gagged and tossed into the canal was somehow the _Cat_'_s_ own fault? What had she been told? And by _whom?_

"Umma, I didn't _ask_ for this. Seven hells, I was _ambushed and tied up_!"

Now it was the cook's turn to look shocked. Her hands ceased moving in the dough and then flew to her face, floured fingers marking her cheeks with streaks of white powder as she met the girls eyes and her look was so… _sympathetic_, and yet angry at the same time. The Cat was actually moved by the woman's profound concern. It did little good _now_ of course, but it was still heartening to know that _someone_ in the temple actually cared what happened to her. Well, someone besides _Jaqen_, who didn't have much choice in the matter, she supposed. She was his apprentice, after all, and if he didn't care enough to make sure she completed her training in a competent fashion, it would shame him.

"Oh, sweet child!" the woman said, tears forming in her eyes as she rushed to the girl, wrapping her dusty fingers around the girl's upper arms. "How could this happen? How could he _do_ this to you?"

"Who, Umma?" the girl asked warily, knowing this was the moment she had hoped for. Umma was about to reveal who was behind the plot against her. She imagined her master's shock when she approached him and laid this bit of information at his feet before he had even had the chance to finalize her placement outside of the temple. She stopped just short of patting herself on the back quite literally.

"Who? _Who?_ That Lorathi scoundrel, that's who! Poor dear, are you hurt very badly? Here, sit," the woman commanded, fretting over the girl and leading her to a stool in the corner. The apprentice was confused by her words and actions suddenly. Did Umma think that Jaqen had been the one to toss her out of the portal? Had she seen the robed man with scratches matching her master's and drawn the same conclusion that the Cat had at first? Or did someone perhaps lie to the woman and say it was Jaqen? If so, who was the liar? If she knew even that much, it would be helpful.

"Umma, Jaqen didn't do this thing. It was four men. They pulled me out of my cell and threw me to the eels. He was asleep in his chamber at the time," the girl explained.

"The _eels_," the woman repeated, sounding confused. "Girl, what are you jabbering about? Did he hit you over your head?"

The two women looked at each other with profound bemusement until finally, the Cat said, "I think you'd better tell me what you're talking about."

"What I'm talking about is the fact that I overheard two of the masters discussing how they were awakened in the night by a woman's _screams_," the woman said, her tone becoming less sympathetic and more suspicious and judgmental once again.

_The nightmare_ the girl realized. Her mentor had said she had cried out just before she bit him. She must have woken some of the other masters. Jaqen hadn't mentioned that she had been loud enough to disturb the peace of the whole corridor.

"And I'm _also_ talking about the fact that the laundresses came through here not so very long ago telling the tale of a barefoot, dark-haired beauty clad only in a man's blouse slipping guiltily out of the Lorathi's room and into the passageway this morning," the woman continued.

Understanding oozed through the girl uncomfortably and she turned cold, realizing what it was that Umma was thinking. Before she could protest, the cook added the last piece of damning information to her list of the girl's transgressions.

"And then they added that they discovered a _bloody sheet_ on the bed of the chamber this acolyte had only just left."

By the time she was done presenting her evidence, the woman was standing upright, her posture ramrod straight, and her arms were crossed over her breasts as she held the girl in her seat with her accusing gaze. She seemed to know everything that occurred after the Cat returned to the temple following her adventure in the canal, but none of what happened before she climbed the courtyard wall and crept into her master's chamber.

"It's not what it… I mean, that's not what… _Umma_," the girl hissed, impatient with her own embarrassment. _She had done nothing wrong_. "I was only in that chamber because… Ooh!"

She gave up trying to explain, groaning because she was not sure how to reveal what had happened to her, unsure of what she could say that would not endanger her safety or the cook's and not knowing what her master would wish revealed and what he would advise she keep hidden at this point. The perpetrators of the violence were unknown as yet, and spreading word of what had occurred might instigate some sort of reprisal. The girl could not see her way to risking Umma's life even though it was frustrating to be accused of something so… so… _ridiculous_ and not know how to defend herself. Finally, she felt compelled to at least try to correct the cook's erroneous assumptions.

"What you're thinking, it's mad," the Cat told the motherly cook. "There is a good explanation for _everything_ you just said and _none_ of it involves my… Or his… We didn't… I mean, I would… I would _never…"_

The Cat recognized that she was wasting her time even as she was still trying to justify herself to the older woman. She _knew_ she sounded stupid; stupid _and _dishonest. How could she explain to the cook in a convincing way that things weren't _like that_ between her master and herself? And why would the woman ever believe her? She was already predisposed to think that there was something going on, considering her remark shortly after Jaqen's return about the Cat flirting with him over crossed swords. The girl remembered feeling disconcerted about the remark at the time, but this was _so much worse. I would never…_ she thought but then stopped herself as she considered what she was asserting.

_Would she?_

Jaqen was like a… father? Brother? Friend? He was _none_ of these. And _all_ of them. And something _more_. Mentor, teacher, guide… She had worn many faces in her life and she now saw that he had, too. Many of them he wore solely for her benefit. She knew that, even when she didn't completely understand why he did it. He owed her _nothing_ and she…

She owed him _everything._

The rules of Westerosi courtesy aside, she had done nothing wrong. _They_ had done nothing wrong. No moral codes were violated. He would _never…_ She was sure of that. Her master still thought of her as a stupid child, and often treated her as one. Her _innocence_ was more precious to her mentor than it was to the cook, she was certain. Even more precious to him than it was to herself, somehow. It made her head hurt to think about, because when she thought of Jaqen as anything more than… what he already was, and when what he was already was almost too much for her to comprehend and too much for her to risk losing, then she was nearly overcome with that strange, twisting feeling inside of her and it led her to think about things she could not afford to think about. _Would she ever? Gods, how could she?_

She was struck with a sudden memory of the feeling of Jaqen's neck beneath her lips; beneath her tongue. She could almost feel the gentle press of his palms even now, calloused skin against her bare forearms as his fingers flexed lazily in response to her touch. The girl dropped her face into her hands, scrubbing away the hazy image of his face when it was so near hers that their lips almost touched, his nose grazing the side of hers through her dark veil. Her skin had almost seemed to burn beneath his touch, the feeling staying with her even after he pulled away to answer the door of their room at the inn; a feeling so deep and so lasting that she swore she could feel it as she sat on the stool in Umma's kitchen though her master was nowhere to be seen.

_It's not like that between us_ she thought, knowing that the sensations and emotions brought on by each of the instances of her master's hands on her, his breath tickling her ear, and his seductive purr were all explained by her own ridiculous, childish desires rather than any feeling of… _ardor_ on his part. She was sure that to Jaqen, it was all merely a manifestation of his infuriating teasing or some lesson he meant for her to master or the platonic affection born of a familiarity that had arisen between them over their years together. And though he was not her suitor or her husband or her lover, what he _was _to her was _so much more important_ than any of those other things. How could she ever ask for something different from him? How could she want more from the man? How could she even _hope_ that someday he would feel for her something other than what any master feels for his apprentice?

_And how could she not?_

* * *

The courtyard seemed deserted. Experience had taught the girl that such tranquility likely meant her master and the Kindly Man were just about to round the corner, having some terribly important, cryptic conversation about what they were planning for her life. This time, however, her master entered the garden alone, and found her reclining on a marble bench, waiting for him. She was the perfect picture of obedience, not eavesdropping on a single secret conversation.

"Umma thinks you _dishonored _me last night," the girl told her master by way of greeting. "Apparently, the evidence is irrefutable."

The Lorathi looked at her strangely and seemed about to ask for more details, but then shook his head as if to say _there's no time_ and instead told her that she was to be given an assignment. The mission was one he felt would allow for her training to continue relatively unimpeded while she performed a duty for the order but also, more importantly, that it provided her the chance to leave the temple, which he was still convinced was not safe for her to remain in under the current circumstances.

"What did the Kindly Man say when you spoke?" the apprentice wanted to know.

"Not much of consequence," her master told her, shrugging. "The thing of importance is that he approved a man's plan."

"Jaqen, why are you _lying_?" she demanded.

He looked at her blankly. The Lorathi had not yet worked out how the girl _knew_ when even his master did not. He was trying to avoid worrying her, not even sure himself that there was anything at all to worry about. He had spoken with the principal elder about an assignment that was discussed in the council meeting while the girl was sparring with her brothers the day before. His sister, the girl's _waif_, had volunteered to take the mission but when Jaqen had presented the idea to the elder of his apprentice taking it instead, he had met with no resistance from either his master or his sister. When the elder questioned him about why he suddenly desired for the girl to be given the assignment, the Lorathi had related some of the details of what had occurred the previous night, watching the man's kindly visage for any hint of his own involvement.

_"A man is concerned for her safety," Jaqen told his master after explaining her abduction and what followed, including her arrival in his chamber to question him about his complicity in the plot, wielding her dagger and ghosting across the room, silent and tense. What the Lorathi did not say to his master was that were he some other man, she could have slit his throat and watched as he bled out before he even knew she was there. But he was not some other man; he was Jaqen H'ghar, and so the girl had found herself pinned beneath her master before she had a chance to touch his skin with her steel._

_"This is most troubling," the elder had admitted placidly, not seeming the least bit troubled. "Why would the girl think you might be involved, brother?"_

_The assassin explained the scratches she had seen which had perfectly mimicked his own and that they were enough to convince the girl that one of her attackers was her master._

_"Remarkable," the Kindly Man observed mildly._

_"What is remarkable about it, brother?" the Lorathi questioned._

_The principal elder regarded the younger man keenly and then said softly, "It's remarkable that the girl had evidence that you were responsible for an attempt on her life yet she still chose to come to you."_

Jaqen recalled the words and though there was nothing about them that he could say was decisively suspicious, there was something in the _way_ the elder had said them; something in his tone that Jaqen did not trust. The elder sounded… disappointed? Whatever it was, it was enough to plant a seed of doubt in the assassin's mind about his own master's innocence in this matter, but not enough for him to confront the man directly. The Lorathi and his lovely girl would need to tread very carefully for now. He could not have her charging off to demand her answers from her _Kindly Man_ only to be strangled and then have her body tossed into the bay for her troubles. Jaqen could suspect and speculate and investigate without raising any alarms. He was not so sure about the Cat, and so he did not answer her demand to know why he was lying, and instead deflected.

"_Jaqen…"_ she prodded persistently.

"What makes you think a man tells his apprentice anything other than the truth?"

She crossed her arms and narrowed her eyes at him, not answering. He waited for her to give in as the stubborn silence yawned between them.

"_You're infuriating!_" she told him. "_I_ bite my lip. _You_… do _something else._"

The girl did not elaborate so her master moved on, telling her that he had arrangements to make but that he would be back for her in the afternoon with more instructions.

"For now, a girl needs a new face. Come."

He took her arm the way he had when he was a Pentoshi ship's captain and she a veiled widow. She pushed aside the troubling thoughts she had had while in the kitchen with Umma and willed her hand to stop trembling as it rested on his skin, lightly curving around his wrist.

"Is a girl ill?" her master asked her, his tone tinged with concern. "You did not take a chill after your walk back to the temple in your wet shift?"

"No, I'm fine," she mumbled tersely, effectively closing the subject.

* * *

"Jaqen, I really don't want to lend credence to the rumors already making their way around the temple," the Cat growled as her master pulled her through the door of his chamber.

"Since when does a stubborn apprentice care what _anyone_ thinks?" her master countered, holding her repeated disregard for his advice and warnings over her head as he shut the door behind them.

The girl turned her head to peer through the small, high window at the leaves of a lemon tree visible through it and huffed a little. _He has an answer for everything._

"A man must give you your face and you will want to rest for a while and become accustomed to it."

"Yes, so?"

"So, does a headstrong girl think her master will leave her in the cell from which she was only just abducted, with no way to bolt the door, while she is incapacitated?"

"I'll hardly be _incapacitated_," she grumbled. "There is no need to be melodramatic."

"You will not be yourself, not fully, for hours. The risk is too great."

"So, masters are allowed to have bolts on their doors?" she laughed. "How very _decorative. _I assume that's all they are good for, since we know that a bolt can't stop a _Faceless Man_, and this place is absolutely _crawling_ with them, in case you haven't noticed."

"A girl knows that for every spell, there is a counter, if one only knows the way of it."

"Yes," she agreed. "Are you going to teach me the counter for someone sliding a bolt open from the outside? And should I just stand at the door with my false face and stare at the bolt, waiting to mutter some magic words if I imagine the bolt begins to move?"

He shook his head slightly at her petulance and instructed her to go inspect the bolt.

"Slide it closed and look at it."

She did as he bid her and it was then she saw that the metal of the rod was inscribed with a string of strange symbols. She ran her finger over them, the carved grooves in the iron barely palpable but still apparent to her sensitive fingertip. They felt… _warm_.

"Is the heat… is that _real_?"

He nodded his head at her with one curt dip of his chin, and then instructed her to sit on his bed. She noted that the linens on it were fresh and undisturbed. Swiftly, Umma's revelation about the laundresses' gossip rushed back. She colored a bit, her apprehension about being in her master's chamber returning.

"I can't be seen leaving here," she told him, her expression serious.

"When you leave here, you will not be you," he assured her.

There was a cloth on his table, wrapped around something. He pulled the edge of the linen back and revealed the face he intended to give her.

"This one is very new," he told her, "so the effects will be… intensified. But you are strong. You will not lose yourself for long."

_What does he mean?_ she wondered. She had never _lost_ herself when taking a new face. Had she felt emotions and fears not her own? Yes. Did she suffer memories and dreams that were not created of her own experiences? Certainly. But had she ever_ lost_ herself? No. But then, she had always worn _old_ faces. Perhaps this was the reason why her master felt she should be bolted in his chamber for a period.

"Lie back, lovely girl, and close your eyes," the Lorathi instructed, his voice soothing. When she had done as she was told, she felt several small pricks placed along her hairline in rapid succession. Then, her master dipped his cool fingers in the warm droplets of blood that had formed from the wounds and dragged them down over her face, streaking her forehead and cheeks as if applying the war paint some of the wildling tribes were rumored to wear. After a few moments, she felt him fitting the mask to her face, dead flesh against live, melding and becoming one. The girl's head began to spin, but she had expected that, and besides, after her night at the inn across from the Moon Pool, she had a whole new appreciation for what true dizziness was like. This was nothing.

In an instant, everything changed. Her heart felt like a stone, cold and heavy and pressing. She gasped for her breath and clutched at her robe, pulling the loose folds away from her body, trying to relieve herself from its sudden weight. The girl felt as if she were being crushed under the burden of the grief of a thousand losses. The feeling was all too familiar to her. It was the blow that nearly leveled a girl named Arya Stark as she watched her father's head roll down the steps of the Sept of Baelor. It was the stabbing pain that pierced her heart when she learned her mother was dead and floating down a river in the land that had once been her home but was now her great sepulcher. It was the gaping maw of despair that a sister fell into after hearing that her brothers were murdered and burned black and hoisted high up for all to see, like a hellish banner declaring that a monster now ruled in the home of their boyhood.

But it wasn't those losses that clawed at her insides and made her gut ache. It wasn't the burden of the deaths of a father and mother and brothers that turned her heart to a hard, dead thing. It was her grief for her _sister._ But her sister was not dead! At least, the girl didn't _think _she was. But she _felt_ it. She felt a sister's death and she began to wail and the wailing wetted her face and streaked her new cheeks with large, endless tears. She cried out her sister's name, unable to stop herself.

"Hellind!"

She opened her eyes and looked around her, looking for Hellind, knowing she wouldn't find her but needing to look anyway. Hellind, more a mother than a sister, so beautiful, so young, so vibrant. She could _not_ be dead. The gods were not so cruel. She searched the dim chamber and did not find her sister, but saw a man she did not know and screamed her fright.

"Shhh," he soothed, taking her in his arms. "Remember who you are, lovely girl."

Her heart was pounding but the stranger seemed kind and so she did not scream again but continued to cry, her sadness covering her like a heavy cloak she could not shrug off. He repeated his exhortation for her to remember who she was and she drew in a few great, sobbing breaths before she spoke to him.

"I'm Mattine," she told him, her shaky voice barely understandable.

"No, no, lovely girl," he told her in his lilting voice, stroking her hair and pressing her against his chest. "You are my apprentice. You are the Cat who terrorizes her brothers with her blades. You are the widow who cannot hold her wine. You are the disobedient girl who hides in the garden and spies on men she should not."

She insisted he was mistaken. How could he know who she was, anyway? He was a stranger. She was very uneasy, not understanding why she was there with a man she did not know, not understanding how Hellind could be gone, not understanding why this Lorathi insisted she was four different people she had never met.

"I'm Mattine," she told him, convinced he would see his mistake.

He sighed, pulling away from her and taking her face in his hands, pulling her gaze into his, and she noticed that he had the most _beautiful_ bronze eyes. They seemed somehow familiar to her. Did she know this man after all?

"You are a she-wolf. You are the Ghost of Harrenhal," the man whispered to her, searching her eyes for recognition. Seeing only the faintest glimmer, he reluctantly pushed her further, finally saying, "You are Arya, of House Stark."

A thousand images spun around her mind; pictures of wolves and boys and horses and weirwood trees and snow and deaths and deaths and deaths. She closed her eyes tightly and shook her head with the weight of it all, her sobbing turning to rapid, shallow breathing and just when she seemed like to faint, she drew in one, great gulp of air and stilled.

"Jaqen?" she asked in a quivering voice, opening her eyes and looking at his neck. She tentatively reached out her hand to touch the linear wounds she found there.

"Yes, lovely girl. A man is here."

She fought to be _herself_ but felt as if she were wrapped in a tight cocoon of _Mattine_. The feeling was physical as well as mental. Her skin felt tight and her head cumbersome. She began roughly rubbing at her arms as if by doing so, she could peel the skin from herself and release her body from its prison of _otherness_. Finding no relief, she raked her hands through her hair, pulling at the roots, trying to tug at the bands that squeezed her head until it felt as if it would cave in. She shook her head violently back and forth, yanking at her now curly, dark hair, trying to dislodge the grief that was not her own.

_I gorged on grief at Summerhall, I need none of yours _she heard in her head, a distant memory calling to her; they were not her own words but she felt them as if they were. She _had _gorged on grief. She had bathed in it and slept with it and breathed it in and out like some choking, oily substance she could not completely cough up. Not at Summerhall, but in King's Landing and at the Twins and at every point in between where her two feet had tread. She had gorged on grief. She did not wish to feel Mattine's, too.

Her master forced her fingers to release her locks, wrestling her arms down and pinning them to her sides. He continued making his soothing shushing noises, sounding like a father trying desperately to console his crying infant.

"This will pass, lovely girl," he murmured, testing her calm after a while by softening the pressure he held against her arms. When she did not immediately start to pull and scratch at herself again, he released her from his grasp. "Did a man not tell you this would happen?"

Somehow, through a fog, she seemed to recall that he _had._ Something about adjusting to a new face and the effects being intensified for some reason. She squinted, experiencing great difficulty in maintaining concentration. The girl nodded uncertainly but squeezed her eyes shut and drew her mouth into a frown, stinting her breaths as if in pain. Her dizziness lessened a little and she was finally able to speak coherently.

"I'm… alright…" she breathed, pressing her palm against her forehead in the manner of one experiencing great regret or a painful headache. "You did… tell me. I just wasn't… prepared."

"Lie back, lovely girl. A man will not leave you until you are ready."

The Cat inside of the grieving girl cracked one eye open, her master's face hovering blurrily near her own. She attempted a smile, which was a sad thing and more akin to a grimace, but said that he need not worry, she would be well enough while he was gone with her warded door bolt and freshly made bed. Her attempt at humor heartened the Lorathi.

"Did a man not say a girl was strong?"

"I don't feel very strong," she lamented.

"To take on a face not a day after it has been removed is no easy thing, sweet child. It is not often done. You did as well as could be expected."

"Why did it have to be _this_ one?" she asked, feeling a slight loosening of the invisible vise squeezing her skull.

"A man will tell all but now, he must make your arrangements. Can you stand?"

The grieving sister snorted weakly as if she had never heard such a ridiculous question but when she arose from the bed, she was forced to grasp her master's shoulder in order to prevent a rather graceless fall. Jaqen placed his hands on her waist, steadying her swaying form and allowing her to gain her bearings. When she seemed less likely to stumble, he dropped his hands and stood himself.

"Slide the bolt behind a man. Do not let _anyone_ in until a man returns," he commanded, then emphasized, "Not anyone."

"I understand."

"A man would prefer for you to rest until his return."

"Well, there doesn't seem to be much else to do in here," the mourner replied.

"Slide the bolt and then rest," Jaqen said again.

"I _understand_," she repeated, her frustration with his hovering showing in her tone. _Honestly, he acts as if he believes that I am as simple as Hodor._

"_There's_ a man's Cat," he laughed as he opened the door and stepped into the corridor. "A man shall return."

And then he was gone.

* * *

_**Burning** **Bright-**_Shinedown

_**Love is** **Blindness**-_U2

**_Not Ready Yet_**-Eels


	29. Chapter 29

The girl spent the next several hours mostly occupied with alternating between pacing and fitful sleeping behind the door of her master's chamber. When she slept, she dreamed dreams that disturbed her for not being her own. When she paced, she thought thoughts that disturbed her for not being her own. When she tried to think her own thoughts, she found that they disturbed her as well, but for different reasons. _Her mother. Jon. Gendry. Jaqen. Eels._

_Things were so much less complicated before Jaqen came back._

She knew that wasn't true, not really. They were no more or less complicated now than before. They were as they _had been_, only now they were drug into the light. The girl was merely _aware_ of the things of which she had previously been ignorant. _Including her own damnable feelings, and she was not like to thank her master for dredging those up_. Though she had missed him greatly, both for his unique instruction and, she had to admit, his companionship, it had, in some ways, been easier for her when the Lorathi was away for all those months. The Cat had no real attachments here in Braavos save for the one to Jaqen, and after he had left her, her only cares were the ones given her by the Kindly Man. _This_ one's death had been prayed for, see to it little Cat. _That_ one will spar with you now, go to it, little Cat. What three things did you learn? How do you make a strangling potion that dissolves quickly in wine and is tasteless? You are wanted in the kitchen before the supper, the cook has need of your assistance. There is a great lesson in stillness. Obedience is a choice.

Now, with Jaqen's return, she had grieved a brother's death (yet again), only to then be almost immediately filled with the lightness of hope as she heard of Thoros and his visions in the fire. She had learned that there was another meaning to the Drowned god's words, a quite literal one, when her mother, once dead, was revived and now lived, in a fashion. She had discovered that dragons, both those with scales _and_ those with silver hair and amethyst eyes, plotted in the warm south of her old kingdom among the people of the ill-fated princess who had borne Rhaegar's children. In fact, it was one of Rhaegar's children doing the lion's share (dragon's share?) of the plotting! And, perhaps most confounding of all, she had untangled the truth of _her master's_ devotion to _her_, learning that while she remained in Braavos, living the life of an acolyte even as she missed her mentor during his long absence, he had been in Westeros, carrying her with him, thinking of her as he carved out the hearts of those she had long wished dead though there was no remuneration for him in the act save a girl's gratitude and ever-increasing adoration. _It had seemed to be enough for him_.

The grief-stricken sister shook her curls at that, knowing it could not be true. The allegiance the Lorathi demonstrated was to Him of Many-Faces and the deaths had honored their god. That the slaying of these two despicable creatures of the Lannisters was a great comfort to his apprentice was surely at the forefront of his mind, but that alone could not be the reason for the act. Jaqen was devout; a true believer. His actions were righteous. He had paid homage to the Many-Faced god in blood sacrifice, and all else was secondary.

_Why, then, did he bring you their hearts?_ her brazen little voice whispered seductively, fanning her doubts; stoking her hopes. _He could have told you what he had done. You would have believed him without the proof you held in your own hands. Why, then, did he cut out their hearts and place them in a chest? Why did he carry that chest across Westeros and the Narrow Sea? Why did he present it as a gift to his apprentice upon his return if he did this thing for his god?_

"Don't be so childish," she admonished herself in a low growl, her lip curling in disgust at the little voice's attempt to support an impossible scenario. "These things don't mean the same thing to him as they do to you." As she said it, she felt a tiny pull from within and it made her feel a little sick. She recognized the sensation as something like _yearning _before she quickly stuffed it down in her practiced way.

Her own thoughts had become a torment to her, so she opted to try resting again, hoping that Mattine's dreams would be less troublesome than her own unruly considerations and desires. She climbed into Jaqen's bed and pulled his clean sheet and soft blanket over her, noting that since the linens had been changed by the laundresses, they no longer smelled of cloves or rosemary or lemons but only carried the faint scent of plain, clean soap. She stifled the little bit of disappointment that attempted to rise up within her over her silly notion of _missing his scent_. She actually rolled her eyes at herself and muttered, "Idiot!"

She laid her head down upon her master's soft pillow, feeling the fatigue of someone who has cried too many tears. The Cat had worried that she would have difficulty falling asleep with all that was swirling around inside of her head but not long after she placed her now olive cheek against the pillow, she was dreaming. Taking on a fresh face had proven to be strangely exhausting. At first, she dreamed Mattine's dreams and they were mostly filled with anxious searching along dark corridors, looking for something she never found despite her desperation, but after a while, she drifted across the narrow sea to Westeros.

Now, instead of looking through Mattine's eyes as she walked slowly down a dark corridor, peering into the gloom and hoping to find that which she sought (her dead sister Hellind, the Cat assumed), the apprentice found that she was watching _herself_ in her true form, as if from above. Her hair was fixed in a long, neat braid decorated with polished silver pins which glittered and winked like a blanket of stars in the clear, midnight sky. Her body was clad in a fine gown of shimmering grey satin with an overlay of silvery lace webbing as delicate as gossamer, woven in an intricate pattern of interlocking snowflakes, each one different from the next. Her impossibly long, dagged sleeves were dragging the ground behind her like narrow twin trains, lengthier by far than even her trailing skirts. The sparkling sleeves tracked so far back beyond her heels that even though she turned her head to watch them follow her, she lost sight of them as they faded and dissolved in the dim light as she walked carefully down the stone stair that led to the crypts under Winterfell. The stones under her feet were encased in thick layers of ice but her foot was sure, her steps deliberate and steadfast, and she did not slip. The grey and silver material of the dagged sleeves whispered over the spreading ice behind her, gathering crystals as they swept over the cold ground and freezing themselves until it appeared they were made of ice rather than satin and lace. They became heavier and heavier, slowing her steps as she continued her resolute march down the shadowy corridor of the crypt, past hulking stone wolves with faces forever arranged in ferocious snarling and the grim visages of long-dead kings, their swords rusting beneath their ageless hands.

One after another, she passed the tombs and the stern men seated upon them, leaving them behind, her steps now no faster than a crawl. Her sleeves had frozen up to her elbows and were as hard as the ice-encased stones upon which she trod. As she roamed the corridors among the crypts, her advancement forced the crystalline sleeves to trail reluctantly behind her and they made a soft cracking sound in protest as she moved. It was the only noise heard among the tombs, but it echoed off the pillars and cold walls, bouncing back and forth against and across the endless line of sepulchers and the ice covering the stone floor, roaring into her ears until it sounded as if an army of men marched across a lake of ice that threatened to give way beneath their feet. Still, she continued on, gliding over the frost of the floor until she reached the area where her most immediate family rested. Her father sat atop his tomb looking as healthy and hale as he had when she last saw him before everything went wrong. He gave her a sad smile and called out her name softly.

"Arya," he said. "My brave, winter girl."

"Father," she choked, trying to reach for him, but the heavy ice of her sleeves weighed her arms down and she could not lift them high enough to touch him. Her hand twitched, feeling the absence of Needle, and she wished she had brought her sword with her into the crypts. She could have used it to cut the unwieldy sleeves away and free herself.

"You are my grey daughter," her father told her. "You are the hope of the North."

"No," she wept, "I'm _no one."_

"You are my grey daughter," Lord Eddard insisted. "Come home."

The longing the girl felt was so strong, it threatened to fell her. She struggled to keep herself upright, the ice now tugging at the hem of her gown, sending fingers of frost crawling up the folds of the skirt, no longer shimmering from the fine metallic threads woven in with the material but rather glittering with the crystals of ice forming like tiny stars on her dress.

"I want to, father," she cried, and her tears froze on her cheeks, trailing tiny diamonds from her long, dark lashes to her jaw, the cold of them numbing her skin with icy kisses. "I want to come home and be with you!"

"I'm not here, sweet girl," her father told her sadly. "None of us are here anymore." He lifted his finger and directed his daughter's gaze toward the tombs surrounding his. First, he pointed to the vault that held the bones of Lord Rickard, his father, then he indicated the crypt of Brandon, his oldest brother, and finally, his finger moved to show the way to Lyanna's tomb. As he did this, Arya turned and stepped toward her aunt's resting place, barely able to move now, almost totally encased in unyielding ice. The girl came face to face with Lady Lyanna's likeness and saw the hard grey form of the statue that sat atop the she-wolf's sepulcher. She was confronted by Lyanna's carved face, all delicate lines and downcast eyes. It was Arya's own face rendered in smooth stone, placid, betraying no emotion. _Rule your face_ the girl thought, admiring the exquisite stillness exhibited by the sculpture. A crown of winter roses, captured and existing evermore in their blooming perfection, wreathed the hair of the unstirring stone girl guarding the bones which rested in the tomb below her feet. As cold crystals began to bloom on Arya's snowy neck, she felt a crown of roses begin to grow in her dark hair, arising out of nothing more than the chill of the crypt and her own breath, now visible in the air before her eyes as tiny, floating clouds of frost. The flowery wreath encircled her brow, becoming heavy with ice and then hardening into sharp Valyrian steel which bit into her scalp. Her head bowed under the oppressive weight of the crown but just as she could not lift her hands to her father, she could not reach up to the ponderous burden upon her skull to remove it. When she attempted to shake her head from side to side in an effort to dislodge the steel circlet, she found that it had frozen itself firmly in place, dark locks of her hair twisting around and through the razor-like steel blooms and thorns which jutted out at odd angles.

She became aware of the soft sounds of scratching and these drew her eye down the corridor, past her aunt's tomb, past her father sitting silently over the resting place of his bones as he watched her, and into the inky blackness of the empty part of the crypt; the part meant for her brothers and their sons and their grandsons. Presently, an immense white beast emerged from the darkness, silent but for the faint scratching of his claws on the ice that covered the floor. He was unaccountably graceful considering his size and his red eyes pierced the girl's grey ones as he stood next to her, his snout brushing her shoulder in a gesture of affection.

"Ghost," Arya managed to say before her lips and tongue froze and she could form no more words.

Jon's direwolf turned and sat next to her, so close that they touched, his side firmly pressing against hers. His thick coat of gleaming white fur somehow warmed her through her dense cloak of ice. He stared at the tomb before them, the one which held Lyanna, and then pricked his ears as if listening to a faint sound emerging from within it. The frost now slithered over the girl's eyelids, closing them and then sealing them shut with its crystalline strength, plunging her into darkness.

There was a heavy knocking sound that pierced through the ice damming her ears but she could not move or open her eyes to see from where it emanated. _Is that coming from within the tomb? Is Lyanna trapped inside, begging to be freed? _The knocking came again, louder and more insistent and she fought against the frozen tears which closed her eyes, trying to force the lids open. It took all of her strength but she finally managed to pry her lashes apart and looked around, surprised to see herself in a clean, warm, orderly bedchamber, not in the cold crypts of Winterfell. The knocking came a third time and the sorrowful sister sat up heavily, rubbing at her eyes with the heels of her hands. A faint voice came from the other side of Jaqen's door. She was unable to hear it clearly.

The girl slowly realized that Winterfell had been a dream and that _this_ was the real world. Finding that she was not frozen and immobile was a pleasant relief but the dream still pressed heavily on her mind and she felt her own old grief stabbing at her sharply, pushing painfully against her heart as she lost her father to the mists. Groaning her dissatisfaction at being awakened and still quite groggy, she rose to her feet and stretched, then walked to the door. She threw the bolt back and opened the door, finding a peeved-looking Jaqen standing in the masters' corridor, his arms crossed over his chest.

"Did a man not say that a girl was to open this door to _no one_ but her master?" he asked his apprentice gruffly.

"I'm sorry, are you _not_ Jaqen H'ghar?" the girl yawned as he entered the chamber.

"A girl must have enjoyed her adventure with the eels of the canal much more than a man realized if she can be so careless now," her master observed in the same cold manner exhibited by the Kindly Man when he was displeased. The girl did not like the tone; it was emotionless in the extreme and it made her feel as if she were standing in the dark, alone. Jaqen closed the door and turned to look at the acolyte. She fought to not chew her lip, which was the most natural thing for her to do when she was beginning to realize something but didn't quite have a full grasp on it yet.

"I… I _knew_ it was you," she insisted slowly, not sure how but knowing it was true.

The Lorathi raised his eyebrows in a show of mild surprise, but his look was not one of pure belief. He seemed to be examining her face as if he were trying to suss out her lie but finding no evidence of it, he bade her explain further with a simple hand gesture. Jaqen could say more with a movement or a gesture or a look than any man Arya had ever met. She had often thought if he had been in Ilyn Payne's shoes and lost his tongue, she still could have had whole conversations with the man.

"I can't really… I don't know exactly _how_," the girl started, narrowing her now doe-like eyes in concentration. "I just… it's like I could…" She blew out a great huff of air in frustration. She couldn't find the words to tell him what it was she had felt and how the certainty of his identity had come to her in an almost unconscious way.

"Was it like it was with the cat in the alley?" her mentor probed softly but urgently.

"No, not… not exactly."

"It seems to a man that the more you use your… _ability_, the stronger it becomes, just like your sword arm."

This was a comparison that made sense to her. She looked at him and her eyes asked him a question, but he waved his hand at her in dismissal, saying, "This is something to discuss elsewhere. For now, a girl must change and come with her master."

"Where?" she asked, hiding her amazement at the pack Jaqen was tossing on the bed for her. _Where had that come from?_

"The only thing that outweighs a girl's blade skills is her impertinence. Do as a man says and we will speak on the way."

Chastened, the girl dumped the contents of the pack out onto the bed. There were two dresses, plain but of decent quality, two _petticoats_ (which brought a scowl to her face), a pair of sturdy leather shoes, a plain shift, some smallclothes, and a shawl. Some of the things looked familiar, as she had just recently removed them from the body of the suicidal girl whose face she now wore.

The Cat turned and looked at her master, cocking her head at him as if to say, "Are you serious?" but seeing no sign of jesting in his expression, she sighed and sorted through the clothes, grumbling about the idiocy of petticoats.

"If a girl is to convincingly play the part of a grieving sister who now serves as cook in the kitchen of the inn across from the Moon Pool, she must also dress the part. A Cat might not wish to wear proper girl's clothes, but _Mattine_ would never wish to walk about the town in breeches and a leather jerkin."

Of course, the Cat _knew_ all this—she wasn't completely stupid. It wasn't as if she hadn't dressed the part of a hundred other people in her time with the Faceless Men (and, truth be told, for a long while before that as well), but this particular part she was undertaking was a choice of her master, or so she thought, and she wondered why he had chosen to make her _this_ girl when he could have made her _anyone_. Jaqen seemed to understand the question she was considering and laughed a little at her.

"Patience, little Cat. A man has said he will tell you everything you need to know. But first, to dress and begin our journey to the inn."

The girl gave him a meaningful look as she grabbed one of the dresses and one of the petticoats off the bed. This made him laugh more genuinely and shake his head at her.

"You may have your modesty, lovely girl. A man has a small errand," he said, and then produced a packet that contained some slices of bread and a hunk of cheese, explaining, "A girl missed her midday meal."

She watched him leave the food on his table for her and then walk to the door, sweeping it open silently. She almost called out to him to ask him how long he would be, but then decided it didn't matter. Even if he were planning to be gone all night, she didn't think she would do more than sit in the chair and await him. She had enough strange dreams to ponder without increasing the load of them in her head. There would be no more sleep until after she had arrived at whatever destination her master had in mind for her.

When Jaqen was in the corridor, pulling the door closed behind him, she heard him call back to her, "The bolt, child." She rolled her eyes even though he was not there to see her, but then walked to the wooden door and slid the spelled bolt into its place.

* * *

The girl was arrayed in her farcical attire and had been sitting in the chair in her master's chamber for what felt like a long while, trying to think about what lay before her rather than all that lay behind. The exercise was one in self-control and she was losing that particular battle. As she tried to force herself to think of the upcoming final trial or guess at the particulars of the assignment she was about to undertake, she found that instead, her mind filled with thoughts of Jon and her father and her strange dream. She blamed her lack of focus on Mattine's overwhelming grief and her own empathy for it which was somehow inescapable. She tried to convince herself that shouldering Mattine's sadness was likely what had called up the images of the crypts and her dream of her father and Ghost.

When the younger sister of the girl the Cat had poisoned had come into the House of Black and White, seeking solace in death, the apprentice had judged her harshly for her weakness. She still felt that the suicide had done nothing in the way of honoring a dead sister, but she understood a little better how the younger girl could see death as her most viable option in the face of her crushing woe. The Cat's own woes were many but the fact that she had never been so _flattened_ by the weight of them, previously a point of pride for her, begin to gnaw at her after having experienced the feelings that another grieving girl had endured in the face of overwhelming personal tragedy.

_Is there something wrong with me?_ the acolyte wondered. _I've lost nearly everyone and I can still laugh sometimes. Perhaps I really am made of ice. _Was _this_ the true meaning of her strange dream of the crypts under Winterfell?

A knock at the door interrupted her moment of self-exploration and she rose and walked toward it. She heard no voice calling her through the door and so closed her eyes and just _felt_. Inhaling deeply, she found whispers, almost like small snatches of conversations, and flickering images tickling her ears and eyes. She saw the door before her eyes, but from the other side. She saw a dim rendering of the Kindly Man's face wearing his bland expression as he said, "…she still chose to come to you." She felt a sort of worry mixed with something like affection and pride. She smelled spice and citrus and then saw a more solid image of a hand being raised to knock at the door. She quickly slid the bolt and opened it to see her master with his hand raised, knuckles prepared to rap against the wood planks of his own door once again. He had changed his clothing, wearing robes of a deep blue so dark that it reminded her of the waters of the bay after sundown. The expression he wore was one of a person who had been taken aback.

"A man felt that," he told her in a bare whisper, moving through the door and grabbing up the small pack in which the girl had replaced the clothes she was not currently wearing. Her black and white robe and its corded belt she left draped over the rail at the foot of her master's bed. The Cat was bubbling with questions about what he had meant by his words, what exactly he had _felt_, and what this meant for her but his look kept her from voicing her queries and they died on her lips. He seemed to be saying _not here_.

The Lorathi put his hand to his forehead and within seconds, he had caressed his own flesh with his calloused fingers and palm and then was no longer Lorathi. He was a wealthy merchant of Braavos, with a face older than his own true face but still very handsome. The pair set off together, merchant-Jaqen carrying her pouch and sorrowful-sibling-Arya scurrying to keep up with his long strides as her heavy skirts swished around her ankles. _This stupid petticoat is made of lead_ she thought grumpily. Of course, it wasn't, and it wasn't even very heavy, but the girl was out of sorts after the particularly difficult face transformation and then her strange thoughts and confusing dreams. It had left her as cranky as an alley cat whose sleep has been disturbed by bickering assassins.

"Are you going to tell me what I'm to do now?" the girl asked somewhat breathlessly after she had picked up her skirts and drew even with her master in a trot outside of the temple. Dusk was settling around Braavos.

"A certain wealthy Braavosi prayed to the Many-Faced god for a painless death," her master began, his false lips unsmiling as he hurried through the streets of the town.

"And I'm to give him a painless death?" she interrupted. "I'm not sure I understand the need for this particular face, then."

"How many more years will it take for a girl to lose her impetuosity?" said the merchant flanking her, sighing in irritation. "May a man finish his story?"

The girl felt color creeping into her cheeks at his rebuke, but she did not know if it was her real cheek that blushed underneath her false face or if it was the one she wore as a disguise which made her appear to be some combination of Braavosi and Myrish stock. _Olive cheeks probably don't blush as easily as pale Northern ones_ she reasoned.

"This wealthy Braavosi had his prayers granted by a certain Pentoshi widow who sweetened a maid's basket of figs. Now, it seems, the sister of the dead maid has prayed for this wealthy man to receive the same gift he paid to have bestowed upon his beautiful maid."

There was a nice symmetry to this thing that pleased the Cat, somehow. A man had his lover done away with, and now his lover's sister would have _him_ done away with. One thing stuck out in the Cat's mind, however.

"How could a poor girl afford to pay the fees for this sort of _gift_?" she asked her master with the poor girl's own mouth.

"Coin is not the only currency the House of Black and White deals in," Jaqen-who-was-not-Jaqen said simply.

The apprentice realized then that she had judged the girl whose face she now wore much too quickly. Mattine had not given up and refused to fight as the Cat had believed. She had not asked for her own gift of death, drinking the dark draft from the pool in the center of the temple so that she might escape her endless sadness by entering the Nightlands to be with her sister. Instead, she had used her last breath and the only thing of value she had left to her, her face, and with it, she had bought the services of the Faceless Men to avenge her sister. Not cozened by the tale of Hellind's death being a tragic but nonetheless _natural _occurrence, she either strongly suspected or had managed to discover the truth and had secured her revenge upon the architect of her grief. The fact that she did this knowing she would not be allowed to stay in the land of the living and see the thing through spoke volumes about Mattine's dedication to her sister. The younger sister did not have the blade skills or the talent of sleight of hand for slipping poisons into cups and bowls and platters of foods consumed by her enemy, yet her goal would still be achieved. The Cat's steps slowed and then stopped as she considered the courage and determination a seemingly helpless girl had displayed when it came to honoring her family.

_Killing him will be a pleasure_ the girl thought and she was not sure if the emotion belonged to herself or Mattine. Perhaps it was both. She did not pause to consider the irony that both Hellind _and_ her lover would be sent to the Nightlands by the same hand, _her own_, and that she felt Mattine's cause was righteous but felt no responsibility for the grieving sister's sadness despite her prominent role in Hellind's death. She shrugged, undisturbed, thinking, _If not me, then someone else would have done it. Her death was prayed for, then bought and paid. There was no changing her fate once the Many-Faced god had fixed his all-seeing eye upon the maid._

The Lorathi had walked ahead, so lost in his own thoughts that he had not paid his apprentice much attention when she had slowed her step and fell behind him. When he looked back before crossing the bridge over the Long Canal that would bring them closer to their destination, expecting to find her on his heels, he was surprised to see her standing still, staring down into the canal, looking but not seeing. She was perhaps thirty yards behind him. He doubled back for her, threading his arm through hers and shaking her out of her reverie.

"A girl will want more details of this assignment," he told her, pulling her along firmly, "which will be difficult to provide if she stays on one side of the canal while a man crosses to the other."

"Sorry," she muttered sheepishly. "I was just thinking of how great a sacrifice the girl made for love of her sister."

"Just so," the merchant agreed as they began on their way again. "A great, noble, _foolish_ sacrifice."

"Foolish?" the girl asked, her tone marking her disagreement. "What else could she have done?"

"She could have lived. Does a Cat believe that this girl's sister will thank her for her sacrifice?"

The girl had no answer for him. She thought of Jon. If he had been truly killed and had not somehow survived the attack by those traitors calling themselves his brothers at Castle Black, would he be grateful to his little sister if she managed to purchase just retribution with her own life? She considered it and knew that if such a thing were possible after death, Jon, or his shade, or his spirit or whatever was left of him, would throttle her soundly for such a selfless act. He would want her to live, above all else. Surely Hellind felt the same way about her own sister.

"Anyone so precious to you as to be worth such a profound sacrifice would love you enough to insist that you not make it," her master continued as they crossed the bridge. "And if they are not able to insist because they are already dead, then you should know them well enough to _know_ their wishes, _abide_ by them, and _live._"

The Cat got the distinct impression that her master was not talking about Mattine and Hellind. Before she could ask Jaqen what he meant specifically, though, he was telling her about her assignment.

"The man you seek dines in the tavern of the inn near the Moon Pool at least once a week," her mentor told her. "A man believes you are familiar with this place, having passed an interesting night there once yourself."

Her lips twitched with her vexation and she gave him a sideways glance that conveyed her lack of appreciation for his japing but she said nothing.

"You will serve as the new cook in the kitchen. Before her death, Mattine requested this man receive the same gift her sister did."

"Simple enough," the Cat mused out loud. "If I'm to be the cook, slipping Sweetsleep into his food should be an easy task."

"Not quite so simple," the faceless-merchant corrected his impatient apprentice. "The man has a guard who tastes all of his food. He seems to be a bit paranoid that the gods will punish him for a certain recent act of hiring an assassin to dispose of his lover."

"Still, a little sleight of hand while passing his table after the wine or food has been tasted should serve," the girl remarked.

"There is one other small requirement, however."

"Hmm?" the Cat asked, already lost in thought about which technique she would use to poison the man's lamprey pie. Pretending to trip and stumble into him would likely be effective, especially since she had been given such a fetching face for this mission and Mattine had a slight but shapely frame. She was small enough to seem unthreatening but curved and pretty enough to be nicely distracting.

"The maid's sister desired for the man to be humiliated, his sins laid bare before his family and friends. He sought to hide his shame with her sister which led to her death. The girl wanted the man's adultery made plain and his reputation as a pious and faithful man ruined."

The Cat sighed and replied, "It's always something with these worshippers. _Make it appear as if he was a__ccidentally killed with his own knife through the heart_. Now, _have him caught in a compromising position as he dies._ No one is ever happy to just deliver the gift anymore…"

"A man is happy to help his lovely girl plan her strategy," Jaqen offered but she declined.

"I think I can solve this riddle easily enough," she told him, her mind already considering the various moving parts of the assignment. For all of her complaining, she actually enjoyed the problem-solving aspects of these assignments. The easy ones were boring; a waste of her talents. "The hardest part of this will likely be passing for a cook."

"A girl has spent enough time in the kitchen of the temple that she should have no problem."

She considered her master's observation and decided he was correct. There were several of Umma's dishes that the girl was familiar enough with to render passably. She could likely have a career baking bread if she found that the demand for faceless assassins ever waned.

_Not likely_, she thought. _There will always be those who are willing to pay for the gift of death for their enemies._

_And there will always be those who are willing to give it, for the right inducement._

They walked in silence the rest of the way and when her master finally led her into the familiar tavern and greeted the owner, the sorrowful sister noted the same buxom tavern wench serving in the common room. The servant's cheeks were dimpled in an instant as she spied Jaqen, wearing his older, Braavosi countenance, and the Cat felt her own disdain seeping through her pores at the wench's audacious flirting. _She's appraised his fine clothes and thinks to get herself a wealthy lover who will shower her with gifts _the Cat thought with distaste. When her master's business with the inn's owner had concluded, the Lorathi led the new cook off to the side for a final word.

"A man wishes his apprentice to take this assignment seriously," he murmured in a low voice meant for her ears only. "You may believe this to be simple, but there are many things that may go wrong. Remember, this dead man is wary and he keeps a guard. A man expects you to return to him with a report of success and that success will include your own person being unharmed."

"I understand."

"The owner believes that his new cook has a relationship with a wealthy merchant, serious enough that he went to the trouble to engage this position for her. This will enable a man to visit his apprentice in the evenings so that a girl's training may continue."

"_A relationship…_" the girl started, feeling her embarrassment and her anger beginning to rise, but her master cut her off with a wave of his hand, brooking no argument.

"On the days a man cannot come, he will send a girl's brother to her," he continued, ignoring the way she glared daggers at him.

"Which one?" she spat, still dissatisfied that once again, she was to be thought of as some sort of kept woman at this thrice-damned inn.

"The large bear of a boy. You will spar with him and teach him your two-blade technique."

"What? I'm only just learning it myself!" she cried but he gave her a look of warning and she lowered her voice. "How can you expect me to teach him?"

"It is not a man who expects this," Jaqen told her. "A girl told this boy she would teach him and the Bear expects her to hold to her word." She was about to protest but then realized her mentor was right. She had agreed to do just that after she had bloodied the large boy's nose.

"Fine," she agreed grudgingly.

"Teaching a thing is not the worst way to solidify your skills," he continued. "A girl will have a small room behind the kitchen. When you have done your duties for the tavern, you are free to do your duties for the temple."

"My duties for the temple being the continuation of my training?"

"_And_ the humiliation and elimination of a man who, of his own accord, has recently found himself without his lover," he reminded her.

She nodded her acceptance of her role and then her master was gone after whispering "Valar morghulis" in her ear and placing a gentle kiss on her temple in the overly familiar manner of a lover leaving his mistress in the position he has just arranged for her. After less than a minute, the bouncing tavern girl approached her and began to converse.

"So, you're the new cook, eh? I'm not sure what was wrong with the _old_ one, but that handsome man came in and had some words with Staaviros and then suddenly, _she's_ out and _you're_ in. Who _is_ he anyway?"

"No one to be trifled with," the new cook replied seriously.

* * *

**_Ghosts That We Knew_**—Mumford and Sons

**_After the_ Storm**-Mumford and Sons

**_Glycerine_**-Bush


	30. Chapter 30

By the time the Cat-who-was-Mattine had familiarized herself with the inn's kitchen and endured a dozen or more sideways glances from Staaviros, the inn's owner (no doubt wondering what she had under her plain dress and petticoat that would make a wealthy merchant go to such trouble for her), it was quite late. The dimpled tavern wench showed her the room where she would sleep while serving as the inn's cook. It was small, located just off the kitchen, backing up to the alley behind the inn, but it had a window, which was nice. The heat from the kitchen kept the room quite warm so the ability to let in a breeze would be welcome.

The new cook noted that there was a thin wooden latch on the door that she could slip into place but it looked so weak that it wouldn't take a man of great strength to kick at the door and splinter the slat securing it, much less a Faceless Man. _Not so much protection as a way to secure the door for a bit of privacy when changing from one plain brown dress into another._ That was all well and good; a bit of intermittent privacy was enough. The girl needed no protection afforded by the door or latch (spelled or otherwise); she had her blades.

"I sleep in a small room upstairs," the serving girl told the new cook. "That way, if any of the patrons needs anything in the night, I'm nearby."

_I'll just bet you are, _the Cat thought.

"My name is Olive, by the way," the wench told her.

"Olive? That's… odd."

The plump girl shrugged, saying, "My mother loved them. Couldn't get enough of them during her confinement, they say."

_Who's 'they'?_ the acolyte wondered.

"Also, she was a bit of a drunk, and daft besides," the serving girl laughed good-naturedly. "But, I think it suits me. Olives are plump and delicious." After the words left her mouth, she giggled at her own oft-repeated jest, likely something she had picked up from some unsavory sailor rather than a clever line she had thought up all on her own.

The cook gave the plump girl half of a smirk that she hoped would pass for a smile of appreciation of the wench's bawdy humor. It would have to do-it was all she could manage at the moment. Taking the new girl's smirking expression as an invitation to continue the mostly one-sided conversation, Olive plopped heavily onto the bed in the tiny room the Cat would call home until she completed her assignment, spreading the blanket smooth with her palms once she had settled herself atop the mattress.

"So, what are we to call _you_?" the tavern wench demanded but in a friendly tone.

"Mattine," the cooking Cat answered, not bothering to come up with something new. She might cross paths with people who recognized her false face and it could create problems if she were known as something different that the grieving sister's actual name.

"Mattine… hmm. That's very exotic. Myrish?"

"My mother was Myrish," the girl supplied and for all she knew, it might be true. "My father was of Braavos."

"I could tell you had Myrish in you," Olive revealed with a mischievous twinkle in her eye. "They say that the blood runs very hot in Myr. Is that what your wealthy lover sees in you?"

"I honestly don't know _what_ he sees in me," the Cat replied, her voice growing colder and more snappish. She would have to find a _very special way_ to thank Jaqen for putting her in this position. Again. With the same chatty tavern wench.

"I didn't mean any offense," the wench assured her. "I mean, of course you're very pretty; you have a nice figure and you have those big, brown eyes that men like. But there are lots of pretty, shapely girls with big brown eyes here in Braavos. And _he_… He is _very_ handsome."

"He is," the new cook agreed, "and he also doesn't like for me to talk about him with strangers."

"Oh, no? Well, I understand. But I can tell that we will be very great friends, Mattine, and not strangers at all after a time. You can tell me about him then. I wouldn't mind finding a handsome, wealthy lover for myself, though," the wench revealed with a conspiratorial wink at the cook. "You'll have to tell me your secret."

_No, I really won't, _the Cat thought, but said nothing.

"There was another fine gentleman in here, not so long ago," Olive continued, prattling on as if they were best girlfriends giggling together over which knight was the handsomest at the tourney.

_She sounds like Jeyne Poole talking to Sansa._

"He was a bit older than your man, but still very handsome, and rich. A ship's captain, he was, with the oddest daughter," the serving girl continued. "Anyway, I thought there was a little something between us, but then he had to leave port. It's nice that you have a merchant. He's like to stay put."

_Something between them? Ha!_ the Cat snorted to herself. _She talks more than Loric when he's excited about... anything._

As the tavern wench sighed, the cook smiled a small smile, and it likely seemed to Olive as if Mattine was appreciating her own good fortune at having found such an agreeable lover, thinking her secret thoughts of adoration and contentment inwardly. Olive would have been less thrilled with what the Cat was really thinking, which was, _I wonder what this stupid cow would say if I told her that the captain she fancied she had an intimate exchange with and the handsome merchant were one in the same? It would almost be worth whatever punishment the Kindly Man would levy for revealing secrets just to see the look on her idiotic face. Stupid dimples._

"Well, I'll be back in the morning, to help you with the breakfast," Olive said, rising from the cook's narrow bed. "There are only a few patrons staying here tonight, so it should be light work to start you off. Goodnight, Mattine."

"Goodnight, Olive," the cook drawled in her perfect Braavosi, ushering the girl out of the door so that she might latch it and strip to her small clothes. The room was too warm to sleep in anything heavier than that. Before she undressed, she looked up at the shuttered window, just out of her reach when she lifted herself onto her toes. Hoping to get some air circulating in the stuffy room, the cook used the bed as a step to take her to the tabletop that sat under the window and from there, she was able to unlatch and then throw open the wooden shutters. She poked her head out of the now open window and looked up and down the alley, finding it dark and empty. It was quiet now, but she suspected that at some point, a few drunken _Bravos _might stumble through and disturb her peace. The inn was too close to the Moon Pool to think she could escape their obnoxious revelry. She spied a large cat with a distinctive tortoise shell pattern on his back traipsing on the side of the alley furthest from her. The girl called out to him.

"If you see any _Bravos_, Ser Tom, I would greatly appreciate it if you would direct them to engage in their foolishness by some other girl's window."

The cat looked at her with yellow eyes just visible in the strip of light thrown from her window and across the dark ally. He stopped when her heard her voice and then gave her a plaintive yowl.

"I'm sorry, I have no sardines for you. You should go find one of Brusco's daughters in the morning. You'll have better luck with one of them."

The cat meowed and then stalked off in search of a proper meal. The cook watched him go and then hopped from the table to the floor, landing quietly in a crouch on all fours. From there she stood and removed the small knife trapped in the corseted top of her petticoat and laid it on the table next to the bed. The ones at her wrist and thigh, she left in place. It was always helpful to have one unsheathed, though, as she had been able to demonstrate when she had received four visitors to her cell in the temple of Black and White in the dark of night. _Perhaps I should have had four unsheathed on that particular night. Things might have gone differently then. _Satisfied with both her view of the door and window and the placement of her dagger on the table next to where she would lay her head, she removed her dress and petticoat, deftly loosening the tight laces of the corset (and thinking to herself that her master could have nothing to say about her skills with laces if he had only been witness to the speed with which she removed the uncomfortable shell), and laid herself on the small bed. She said the names (_Ser Ilyn, Ser Meryn, Queen Cersei, the black brothers who betrayed Jon) _and then she extinguished the candle on her table, so close to her head that she barely had to move from her pillow to blow it out. Once darkness descended upon the room, the girl fell almost immediately into a deep sleep which was, thankfully, dreamless.

Across Braavos, on the other side of the Long Canal, Jaqen H'ghar was not so fortunate. After having eaten his supper of fish stew and fresh bread chased with a rather sizable cup of mead to still his chaotic thoughts, he had returned to his chamber and stripped his clothes off, meaning to slide between his freshly cleaned sheets and fall into the deepest sleep he could manage, certain that he would not be awakened by any creeping Cats this night. Everything seemed to conspire against him, however. When he folded his breeches and jerkin neatly and reached over to drape them on the rail of his bed, he found the black and white robe left there by his apprentice. The Lorathi put his clothes in their place and picked up the garment that did not belong to him, meaning to lay it on his chair so that he could deliver it to the Cat's cell after he awoke in the morning but, as he carried it across the room, he could detect her scent upon the clothes. Clover kissed by sunshine somehow melded with the snows of the North and then she was in his head, unbidden, smirking at him over her bare, white shoulder, bruises now all healed and gone, her soft skin nearly gleaming in its milky perfection.

The assassin threw the robe into his chair rather more forcefully than was necessary. He turned to approach his bed and then saw the rumpled sheet and blanket thrown aside, the feathers in his pillow pressed and dented to form the shape of a lovely girl's head.

_A man would prefer for you to rest until his return, _he had told the girl and for once, she had actually listened to him and obeyed. He stared at the unmade bed for a long moment and drew a slow breath in, closing his eyes. When he did this, he could perfectly picture her there, reclining against the mattress, and though it was Mattine's face she wore while she slept there earlier, the girl in his head was all Arya Stark and all grown up. Her grey eyes closed sleepily as she placed her cheek against the cool of his pillow, her unbound hair twisting and waving like thick ribbons of dusk against the white sheet and the black and white of her robe. She parted her lips slightly, dispelling one sighing breath that carried on it a name. _Jaqen,_ she whispered. The man opened his eyes quickly, taking in the scene before him, filling his mind with the picture of his very empty, very disheveled bed. He was desperately trying to forcefully drive away the maddeningly contradictory image of his apprentice which tormented him; the picture of innocence and blood; beauty and hatred; stillness and impulsivity.

_Devotion and disobedience._

He _could not_ feel what he felt. Too much was at stake; too much that was precious to him, including a girl's much-battered heart, but more importantly, her life. And his. And beyond that, she was a child, no matter how many marriages and children and houses' honor the Westerosi would expect her to carry at her tender age. No matter how she had changed and grown under his very eye. No matter how he felt inside when he looked at her. He _should not_ feel what he felt, and so he denied it with all the facelessness afforded him, and walked to his bed, ignoring the dent in his pillow, ignoring the careless way the blanket was thrown back, ignoring the wrinkles in the sheet that he had not created. He _would not_ allow himself to feel what he felt but when he blew out the candle on his table and pulled his covers over his body, her scent enveloped him again, and he felt it all anyway.

He cursed his stupidity softly in Lorathi. _Of course the bed smells like her, she spent all day napping in it, as he had wished. _He pinched his eyes shut tightly, frowning as he tried to think of the steel he smelled rather than the girl who wielded it, and of the clover itself, wet with dew, not the girl who carried its scent on her skin, and of the cold, biting snows of the North, not the girl whose cheek resembled the undisturbed drifts he rode past on his way to the Wall. When he nearly congratulated himself for mostly succeeding in subduing his thoughts of his innocent girl, he was vexed to find that those thoughts had been replaced by his memories of her playing the role of a less-virginal aggressor.

Opening his eyes and staring into the darkness, he could almost feel her bottom lip, the one she always chewed when she was considering something that took her full attention. He recalled in aching detail its softness as she dragged it along the healing cat scratches on his neck, the wounds with which she herself had marked him . He remembered perfectly her warm tongue pressing into his flesh. Even the _memory_ of the gentle scrape of her teeth seemed to cause his heartbeat to still momentarily, just before it quickened, suddenly hammering away in his chest at a feverish pace, in the same way it had done one night before as his innocent apprentice played the part of the temptress. He recalled how he himself had split into two at that moment, thankful that the part that remained in control of his body was the part that was faceless and restrained, not the part that wanted to growl his pleasure into her white neck and breast; the part that burned to smash his lips mercilessly against hers; the part that yearned to teach her how a man used _his_ tongue, and what such wanton behaviors as hers led to in his bed.

He told himself that he let her continue her attempts at seducing him so that he could observe how far she was willing to go to gain control of the situation. It was a valuable lesson for her, and he was like to learn of what his lovely girl was really capable. He nearly had himself convinced that he had a duty to allow her to attempt to work out how a girl should use her mouth, her touch, her very breath as a tool to put herself in a superior position. And, in a way, it was true, at least for the faceless part of him that held just enough of his power that night to keep things from getting completely out of control. It was the faceless part of him that reacted to her sudden possession of the knife, throwing her off of him instinctively, letting her feel that _he_ was always in control, making her understand that he was always aware of her plan. And he was. But there was another part of him, the weaker part, that hoped that her plan was an altogether different one; one that would lead to him throwing her back onto the mattress rather than onto the floor. He had _hoped_ for it and his hope horrified him. His grasp had loosened on her wrists, allowing her a little freedom of movement, and it was both parts of him that waited breathlessly to see what she would do with that freedom. His faceless part completely expected her to grab for her knife and was prepared to react. The other part, that weaker part, dared to believe she might use her hands to reach up for him and pull him closer to her, an encouragement for all the desire that coursed through him at that instant.

As her master, he would have been disappointed in her had she not used all that was within her power to use in order to escape from her restraint and complete the task she had entered his bedchamber to perform. As Jaqen H'ghar, a man named by a lovely child, he was disappointed that she had used herself in that way, both because he feared for her in the clutches of other men if this should become a tactic she repeated and because he had _hoped... he hoped her actions had been driven by different motivations._

It was pure folly.

_And it still is, _he thought, throwing the sheet and blanket back as he muttered _nar 'amala, _causing his candle to flame back to life. He swung his bare feet to the cool stones of the floor, grasping the edge of his mattress tightly, breathing in and out heavily a few times before standing up almost angrily. He began to rip his new linens off of his bed, intending to throw them out of his room and into the masters' corridor, leaving them in a great, Arya-scented heap. When he was half-done, he reconsidered and felt suddenly foolish. _A man behaves like a green boy,_ he thought in disgust, immediately replacing the sheets and blanket. He crossed his arms over his chest, staring at the newly remade bed and thinking how his lovely girl would laugh and laugh if she could see her master, the most feared of all the Faceless assassins, standing naked in the middle of his bedchamber, afraid to get into his own empty bed.

* * *

When the cook awoke in her new room, she was delighted to note that the open window had relieved the stifling heat of the small chamber and it was pleasantly cool this morning. She dressed quickly and bound her hair up in a scarf she found under her small table, guessing that the old cook must have left it behind. Once ready, she burst into the kitchen of the inn to inspect what was there for her to prepare. Almost immediately after she entered the kitchen from her little side-room, Staaviros came in through the doors that led to the common room and met her, carrying a large basket in his arms. He was followed by the little pot boy the widow had met before, who was carrying a smaller basket in his thin, brown arms.

"Eels," Staaviros grunted, dipping his head toward the large basket in his arms.

"And gulls' eggs!" the younger boy trilled in a voice that indicated that gulls' eggs were one of his favorite things to eat.

"Stewed eels and soft boiled gulls' eggs, then?" the cook clarified. When the inn owner nodded his agreement, she added, "I'll get to work on some bread first."

"Five plates for the upstairs patrons, another five for us, and then we usually get ten or so in here for breakfast. Be prepared for extra, though," Staaviros warned. "Do you think you can handle that?"

The Cat would have given him a disdainful look and rolled her eyes at him, letting him know what an idiot she thought he was for questioning her ability to handle twenty plates of food (_I am a dealer in death, an almost-Faceless Man, and a slayer of giant eels and you are a mere inn-owner. Do not doubt my kitchen prowess!)_, but Mattine seemed a sweeter sort than she, and so the cook just smiled and assured her employer that she was up to the task. _And besides, _she thought with grim satisfaction, _I owe a debt to the eels. _

As the cooking Cat set about making the dough for the bread, Olive entered the kitchen with more sway in her hips than was strictly required for the situation. The Cat had begun to wonder if the wench was perhaps not able to ambulate without making her movements an invitation to sample the particular pleasures offered by one so _plump and delicious._ Olive seemed as helpless to suppress her natural allure as the apprentice was to highlight her own. _We neither of us have an inner seductress,_ the girl thought wryly. _She, because hers is all on the outside and defines her natural state, and me, because the gods forgot to bestow one upon me._

The assassin-in-training had no way of knowing that across Braavos, in a dim but neat bedchamber where he had spent a rather sleepless night, there was a Lorathi gentleman who would vehemently disagree with her appraisal of her own power to tempt men.

* * *

The stewed eel and soft-boiled gulls' eggs won the praise of all who consumed them but it was the warm, crusty bread that was remarked upon most. _Thank you, Umma,_ the new cook thought, wondering how the woman who made the meals for those in the Temple of Black and White would feel about the improvement in the fare at a certain Braavosi inn if she knew the change was due to her own recipes being used. _Not flattered,_ the girl decided, thinking she would not tell her. _But, maybe a little proud of her own ability to teach me._

An array of shellfish was brought into the kitchen by the small pot boy and the older boy who had helped him prepare her bath when she masqueraded as a widow not so long ago. The older boy looked appreciatively at the new cook and his face broke out into a broad grin. _He must fancy himself a sort of charmer, _she thought. _He thinks to tempt this young cook away from her lover. How ridiculous!_ And it was ridiculous, and lighthearted, and not the least bit serious, in the way that only the young can be ridiculous and carefree, because they still have their hope. Not knowing enough of the world and the way of it to have abandoned hope was the gift of the young. _Some of the young_, the girl corrected herself. _The ones who haven't witnessed too much._ The boy hadn't even completely filled out yet. She could tell he was the sort who got a lot of attention from the young girls who moved around the docks-mostly whores and pickpockets at Ragman's, but perhaps a better class here, near the Purple Harbor.

"I heard we had a new cook. I enjoyed your breakfast this morning," the boy said in a jaunty way. "I'm Will. What do they call you?"

"Mattine," the Cat said shortly, not wishing to encourage him. She had a job to do here, well, _two _jobs if you counted the kitchen, and she wished for no distractions. She was still working out how to _humiliate_ a dead man with his own sins and needed to concentrate.

"Mattine! That's right lovely!" the boy declared, then added, "This may sound strange, but do I know you? You just look... so familiar."

"No, I don't think so," Mattine returned lightly, waiting to see if he would pursue the subject.

"I'm almost certain..." he mused. "Perhaps I may have met you in the market a few times? I'm there quite often, buying the supplies for the meals. Do you go to the market often?"

The girl displayed a sad look and then offered in a timid voice, "That was probably my sister. Hellind was always looking for lovely things and little treats."

"You have a sister? And she looks like you? Ain't that something!" Will said, smiling.

"She died," the girl said, her voice registering barely above a whisper. "Very recently." The grief she had experienced while adjusting to the face was fresh enough for the Cat that her statement carried the requisite gravity and sadness to be profoundly touching and very convincing, but she still had to keep herself from smiling when she noted the boisterous boy's reaction to her words. His face had changed from jolly and flirtatious to horrified and embarrassed in an instant. _That should shut him up,_ the girl thought.

"I'm... oh, no, I'm so sorry, Mattine... I didn't... I didn't know," the boy stammered, looking appropriately abashed. The Cat _almost_ felt sorry for him.

The cook said nothing but rather turned from the older boy to inspect the array of crabs and cockles he had brought to her. The small pot boy was setting down his package, wrapped in a loosely woven linen cloth. He smiled shyly up at the curly-headed girl as she pulled the cloth away to reveal the large wheel of aged cheese. She quirked up one corner of her mouth, a habit that was as much her own as chewing her lip, but the boy did not know Mattine, so she did not fear that he would recognize the gesture as out of character. The cheese had inspired her; she knew just what to make for their noon meal.

"What is your name?" she asked the small boy softly.

"Syrio," he told her and her heart lurched. _He even has the same dark curls. _She drew in a calming breath before she spoke again.

"That is a very good name," the Cat told him sincerely. "Syrio, do you like crab and cheese pie?"

"Never had it before," he admitted, but his shyness seemed to be dissolving under her suddenly affectionate look.

"I think you're in for a treat," she laughed, and then looked at the older boy, the one who looked of an age with her. _Will_, was it?

"Will, ask Staaviros how many crab and cheese pies he thinks we'll need for the midday meal. And if anyone is available to help me pick these crabs once they're cooked..."

"I will!" both boys cried in unison and she couldn't help but laugh. It was a merry, tinkling sound that was all Mattine's, not hers. She probably would have snorted at the silliness of their overt enthusiasm to be in the company of this doe-eyed creature, but perhaps she could find a way to use their infatuation with her false self to her advantage. To be an assassin was a fine thing. To be an assassin with an alibi, or a devoted follower, though... that was something else entirely.

* * *

The late-morning sun glowing through the deep green leaves of the fig and lemon trees was creating intricate patterns of dancing light and shadow on the stone path and manicured beds bordered by ornamental grasses in the courtyard garden of the Temple of Black and White. The Kindly Man and his brother strolled together, neither one of them speaking as each considered his own thoughts for a time.

"You do not look well-rested, brother," the principle elder finally remarked to Jaqen.

"No, a man did not sleep well last night," the Lorathi admitted.

"Is there something on your mind that troubles you?" the Kindly Man probed. It was an invitation to talk, to confide in his oldest friend, but it was an invitation that Jaqen could not accept.

"There is much on a man's mind to trouble him," he admitted passively, "but none of it need concern his master."

The Kindly Man sighed in a way that the Lorathi knew meant he was disappointed, though whether in the fact that his brother would not share his thoughts or that his brother had bothered to be troubled by anything at all, Jaqen was not sure. _Worry is not for us, brother. _They walked in silence for a while, the serenity of the garden belying the tension that eddied and pooled just beneath the surface of their polite interactions.

"I know the trial presses on your mind," the elder finally said. "How fares your training of our lady of Stark?"

The younger man raised his eyebrows slightly at the honorific. Every word that had ever left his master's lips was measured, weighed, considered, and carefully chosen. The elder meant something by his use of this address for the girl. _What_ he had meant was left for Jaqen to puzzle out.

"She will make a fine assassin," the girl's mentor responded neutrally.

The elder smiled a little, saying, "Oh, I have no doubt of that."

The Kindly Man drew to a halt under the lemon tree in whose branches a Cat had so recently perched. The elder then sat down upon the bench located there. He indicated that his brother should do the same. Jaqen wondered at his choice of location. Did he mean to show that he _knew_ of the girl's disobedience? Or was this mere coincidence? He awaited the elder's words, wondering if they would contain any subtle clue as to his intentions.

"Soon, our brotherhood will grow," the Kindly Man remarked. "The large Lyseni boy is ready for his final trial as well, despite his apprehension when threatened by young girls."

"Just so," Jaqen nodded. "The Bear has asked his sister to help him develop his blade skills."

"Has he? What an interesting turn of events," the elder said in a tone that conveyed no interest whatsoever, as was his way.

"Brother, if you might consider... There is much and more that a man might still teach the girl."

The principle elder turned his gaze upon Jaqen's face and regarded him without judgment. The older man had always been very good at reading people. The younger man had always been better at _not_ being read.

"Oh, I am certain that there is more you would like to teach her," the elder replied softly.

"This recent... _incident _with the abduction and the canal has shown that she is not ready. A few more months, perhaps... That would be enough."

The elder drew his face into a mask of mild surprise as he addressed the Lorathi, saying in a tone that he reserved for correcting wayward acolytes, "Oh? I was under the impression that the girl had escaped her bonds _and_ several large, ravenous eels without any harm having come to her, swam to safety and then snuck undetected into the bedchamber of a Faceless Man to demand answers. That, to me, sounds like a girl who is _most_ prepared for what the order has in store for her."

"Just so," the assassin agreed, "but it was a close thing. With a few more skills, she might not have been tossed from the temple in the first place, just as a man was not taken by surprise in his bedchamber."

"Yes," the Kindly Man said, his look becoming far-off, as if trying to recall an important detail. Jaqen was not fooled by this bit of mummery but awaited his master's remark. "I find it... interesting that she was able to enter your chamber at all. I had thought that the masters all had bolts on their doors."

"A man forgot to slide it," Jaqen said simply.

"How very... _neglectful_."

"Mmm," was Jaqen's noncommittal reply.

The two men turned from each other, gazing across the courtyard at the tranquil fountain on the opposite wall, saying nothing for a time as each pondered the other's words. The Kindly Man at last addressed his brother with his final judgment.

"We have spoken of this matter before," the principle elder reminded the assassin. "The time has come for this thing to happen. While I am well aware of your wealth of knowledge and your desire to equip your apprentice with _all_ of it, you will have to do the best you can with the time you have left. If she succeeds at her final trial, she will have an important place among the order forever."

What the Kindly Man did _not_ say but what Jaqen knew despite the elder's omission was that if she failed at her final trial, her future was much less certain.

* * *

**Overkill**—Colin Hay (tee hee, Oh, Jaqen...)

**Lovers' Eyes**-Mumford and Sons


	31. Chapter 31

The bereft cook was surprised to find how much she enjoyed the bustle of the inn that first day, particularly the kitchen, and how, with only a little time, her attitude toward those responsible for keeping the thing running properly softened. She even felt less annoyance whenever she had to interact with the flirtatious serving girl. Olive herself had a pleasant, if somewhat ribald way about her. Coarseness had never bothered Arya, though. She was not a fragile flower; she left such delicate sensibilities to her sister and those like her, all the beautiful and proper ladies who would be like to sincerely faint at _just the telling_ of a fraction of what the Cat had seen and done in her short life. Even when a mere child at Winterfell, Arya would more often be found kicking up dust in the stables or getting underfoot in the forge as Mikken tried to do his work without tripping over her than found engaging in the prim, lady-like activities favored by her mother and sister. In such places as she preferred to linger, a girl was much more like to hear bawdy japes and rough language than if she had remained in her insufferable needlework lessons with her septa and her sister. She found that there was a comfort in the indelicacy of men's language—a sort of what-you-see-is-what-is-really-there feeling. With all the polished courtesies of court practiced by the fine lords and ladies of the important Westerosi families, one never really knew what was meant as they spoke, for pretty words could simply be empty gestures _or_ cutting blades meant to wound the very soul of a person.

Of course, all that fear of erroneous interpretation occurred before the girl had shed the guilelessness of childhood. She reasoned that now, with her tutelage among the Faceless Men, she could read the meaning behind the honeyed words and simpering smiles of the fools who called themselves the leaders of the great houses of Westeros as easily as she could read a message drawn from the band around a raven's leg. But, despite her new proficiency at understanding that what was _said_ and what was _meant_ were very often not the same thing, she found that she still preferred the straightforward language of those less-governed by courtesy. It made her feel more accepted and mature (since to be spoken to or exposed to such sentiments indicated that others felt she did not need coddling) and it allowed her to channel her concentration to other areas apart from deciphering the precise implication of a slightly arched eyebrow or barely perceptible smile or change in the pitch of a voice.

Watching the irreverent wench move with her irrepressible combination of joyful energy and undisguised sensuality filled the cook with marvelous amusement and she could not recall immediately why she had hated the girl so much. As Olive brought in the last of the supper platters for Syrio to scrub, the feline behind Mattine's eyes regarded her, trying to call up the exact offense the dimpled girl had committed against the Cat to spawn her ire. The memory came into focus as the wench bounced across the kitchen to drop the dirty dishes into the large tub to soak.

_Oh, yes. She had flirted with Jaqen._

The cook had come to learn that Olive flirted with _everyone_, though. She even said slightly inappropriate things to little _Syrio,_ and he looked to be years younger than even Rickon! (_How old would Rickon be now, had he lived? _It saddened her that she could not immediately answer her own question. _Nine? Nearly Ten? The same age she was when she last saw Winterfell). _Arya shook off the moodiness that threatened to settle over her as she remembered her baby brother and returned her attentions to the buxom serving wench. She supposed Olive hadn't intended any harm when she giggled and pranced and gave Jaqen looks that were heavy with some other meaning besides just attempting to _see_. And, the acolyte recalled, Jaqen was not _Jaqen_ when the serving wench had nearly pressed her large bosom against his nose while bringing them their midday meal in the common room. But still…

_She ought to be more careful where she bats those eyelashes and in whose face she bounces her teats, or she might find her name included in a certain prayer._

The cook bit her lip, wondering at the violence of her emotions. It was not warranted, certainly, because to Olive, one handsome man was as good as the next. But then she remembered a ship's captain whispering in a prettily plump girl's ear and the blush and giggle his words had brought forth from a wench. The memory caused her to feel… _jealous?_ It was a sensation she had no way to interpret, an emotion that was new to her, arising in a seemingly sporadic fashion in recent weeks. It was unfamiliar to her, and a little painful, and extremely annoying. The Cat chided herself (_it's not like that_), scowling inwardly at her inner voice that seemed about to protest her assertion (_oh, yes it is. At least, you _want_ it to be!)_, beating it into submission.

Mattine joined Syrio over the sudsy tub of water and Olive picked at bits of the leftover suppers idly, plopping her round bottom on a stool as she did, watching the pot boy and the cook clean the dishes. The room was quiet but for the sounds of splashing and the clink of platters and cups, but with Olive around, it could not remain that way for long.

"Do you think you'll see your handsome man tonight, Mattine?" the serving wench prodded with a sigh that suggested a bit of envy and a bit of longing.

"I don't know," the cook replied. She had hoped Jaqen would come and teach her something useful, perhaps how to light candles with a few words, but she could not be sure. He had made her no promises about his attendance beyond saying that he would come when he could and send her brother to her otherwise. She had not made any progress toward completing her assignment on this first day except for adding two smitten boys to her list of assets, and she did not want to feel that the day was entirely a waste, at least in regards to her service to the order. Her mentor arriving and expanding her knowledge of the faceless arts was just the sort of antidote for idleness that she craved since the man who was marked for death had not patronized the inn this day, forcing her to have to wait to make his acquaintance.

"If he does, do you think he'll bring you a gift?" Olive pressed.

"Oh, I'm certain that he will," the Cat answered. "He… he has a way of always bringing me _something useful_."

"Something _useful_?" the wench echoed, wrinkling her nose at the notion. "_Useful_ doesn't sound very romantic."

The Cat had been thinking of the recent trick he had taught her and advice he had bestowed upon over time when she had made her remark to Olive, and thought that despite the wench's disapproval, there was nothing she would rather have from her master than something _useful_, but then she remembered the two hearts he had carried with him halfway across the world for her and thought that sometimes... maybe the best gifts were more… _symbolic_ in nature.

"Once, he travelled far to the west and brought me back a gift for which I had prayed to the gods every night for over four years."

Olive's eyes widened and she made a little squealing sound, crying, "Oh! Now _that_ sounds romantic! What was it?"

The Cat considered how to answer her, and then smiled her little malicious smile, saying, "It was something that was worth the life's blood of two men."

The tavern girl's gasp was sincere and she declared that it must have been a great treasure if that were the case.

"It was," the Cat agreed. "It had to be, to make up for him being gone for a year and a half."

"It had to be," Syrio chimed in, his childish voice clear and lovely to the Cat's ears, "to be worthy of you."

Olive laughed at the lad's words and the cook ruffled his hair and called him a "sweet boy" which made him blush. They finished up the cleaning, Olive even pitching in to put the kitchen in order for the morning, and then they all bid each other goodnight and retired to their beds. The cook longed to change into a blouse and breeches but had brought none with her and so remained in Mattine's dress and petticoat, awaiting her master or his envoy. It wasn't long before she heard a faint tapping at the shutters closed over her window and so she climbed atop her table once again, throwing them open. As she did, a small pebble struck her on the forehead.

"Ow!" she cried, rubbing at the spot. "What in the Seven Hells…"

She glared into the alley to see the Bear, his hand raised, prepared to throw another small rock. He grinned when he saw her and gave her a mocking salute and then called out to her to let him in through the alleyway door of the kitchen. She noted he was carrying a long sack and a smaller pack with him.

"What are do you have there?" she hissed, still rubbing her forehead.

"Let me in and I'll show you!" he laughed. "Sorry about your head."

She just glared at him, and then seeing her tortoise-patterned friend skulking behind the boy in the alley, sent him to exact her revenge.

"Ouch!" the lumbering boy yelled as the cat nipped angrily at his ankle. He kicked the animal away, crying, "Where did you come from?"

"There now ," the Cat called down to him, "we're even. Wait there, I'll let you in directly."

In half a minute, the two acolytes were standing face to face (well, more face to chest, considering the boy's great height. Possibly even face to upper abdomen) in the kitchen.

"So, he sent you," the girl stated, feeling a pang of disappointment. She immediately attributed it to knowing she would not be learning any secrets of Asshai that night and when her little voice tried to disagree about the cause of her regret, she told it to bugger off.

"Yes, and I come bearing gifts!" her brother declared.

"Follow me," she told him and then led him to her small room. She closed the door behind them so that he could show her what he had brought without any prying eyes looking in on them, noting that he seemed to fill the small space of her chamber almost completely. Crossing her arms over Mattine's chest, the girl remarked irritably, "You're too bloody big."

He dumped his burdens on her bed, laughing as he said, "I do get that complaint a lot at first, but most girls seem to get used to it."

When she realized he was making a bawdy jest, she rolled her eyes and said, "I know a girl who is _perfect_ for you."

"Oh, come on, Cat," the boy said, moving a little closer to her. "I mean, you're beautiful and all that, but you're like a _sister_ to me."

"Gah!" she cried. "Not me, you dolt! As if I would ever…"

He laughed at her reaction and she wondered if he had been instructed to engage in this ridiculous teasing by her master. Without warning, she clouted his ear with her fist and caused him to release a particularly satisfying yelp. As he retreated from her, stumbling the few steps he could take in the small room, his cloak fell away from his shoulders. It was only then that she noted his clothes.

"What in the… Bear, what are you _wearing_?"

"I'm not a bear tonight," he told her. "I'm a _Bravo_."

She snorted in derision, her eyes assaulted by the clashing bright colors of his ostentatious outfit, made even more mad by his gigantic proportions. Purple pants, blooming out widely just below his knees, the material boasting some sort of orange circle pattern; red stockings (now slightly torn at one ankle, thanks to a cat ambush attack); a flowing, shiny blouse of gold and red stripes. He looked like a Lyseni pirate's stolen stash of ladies silks had exploded over him. He grinned at her and told her not to get too cocky before she inspected what was in the small pack he had brought.

If anything, the small outfit meant for her was _worse_. Golds and bright blues with harsh yellow stockings and a scarf for her abundant hair that was the color of turquoise and jade with red and gold starbursts embroidered all over it. Ridiculous!

"Why?" she asked incredulously.

"The Lorathi said that if we were to spar out in the open, we ought to look like we belonged there."

The apprentice wasn't sure which was more offensive—her master passing her off as his whore (repeatedly) and naming it "subterfuge" or dressing her up like one of those contemptible _Bravos,_ likely for his own amusement. It wouldn't surprise her to find him lurking in an alley, watching her spar and laughing at her while she was dressed as some fanciful bird of the Summer Isles. Rolling her eyes at the gaudy clothing, she inspected the larger package. It was a long, rough spun sack that had clinked and clattered when the Bear-become-_Bravo_ dropped it. _The weapons, then._ She opened the sack, expecting to see training swords and was surprised to see fine, sharp steel inside.

"He wants us to spar with these sharp edges? Has he lost his senses?"

The boy shrugged, telling her, "He said it wasn't safe for us to duel in the streets with blunted swords. Someone might notice and even if they didn't, we had to be prepared in case a brazen _Bravo_ decided to challenge one of us to a duel. He wasn't willing to risk having you try to defend yourself with a training sword."

The girl snorted, then scoffed, "I don't need a sharp edge to fend off those preening peacocks." She gave her brother a meaningful look and his expression showed that he, too, remembered the damage she could do with a dull blade.

She thought of Syrio, the First Sword of Braavos, and the devastation he had wrought with nothing but a wooden stick. _That_ was what she aspired to. Fine steel was a lovely thing, but being able to make a deadly weapon of _anything _was a much more useful skill than simple mastery of swordplay. Her mentor had once told her that she needed to be acquainted with more typical Westerosi weaponry in the event that she found herself without Needle, so, it stood to reason that she should be able to kill a man with a blunt object as well, should the circumstance arise when no sharp edges were available to her and there was a man nearby who needed killing.

"Well, these edges _are_ sharp, so go easy on me," her brother-turned-_Bravo_ pled.

She rolled her eyes at him again and said, "You're not scared of a _little girl_, are you?"

"A little girl? No, never that. I'm scared of _you_, but you're no little girl! You're a demon _masquerading_ as a little girl!"

She quirked up one corner of her mouth in her customary way. _A demon masquerading as a little girl?_ Oh, she liked that very, very much.

* * *

The two _Bravos_ from the House of Black and White were resting near the Moon Pool, having just utterly exhausted themselves with their swords. The Cat was crouched down with her back to the low wall of the famous pool while her brother sat on the cobblestones in front of her facing toward her and the pool. The Bear had been near to hopeless while trying to wield two longswords but the Cat advised him not to worry too much, as he was nearly as hopeless with one greatsword and so by comparison, he wasn't all that bad with the new technique. She gracefully ducked his resultant irritated punch and spun around behind him, landing one solid blow to his bottom with the flat of her sword. He grunted at her but retreated beyond her reach rather than waste his time attempting to retaliate. After that last humiliating exchange, the Bear had admitted to being utterly defeated and that was when they decided to seek respite by the Moon Pool.

She had actually taken it easy on him, as he had requested, mostly just trying to get him comfortable with fighting with his two hands clenching two separate weapons rather than both of them wrapped around one giant sword. It was a good thing she was quick, though, as a few of his awkward blows, had she not avoided them, could have seriously wounded her since they were levied with good steel. He was bad enough thus far with the new style to only rarely be a threat to her, but also bad enough that he could not control his sharp edge adequately to guarantee her safety. _Good practice for the real world, _she thought as she danced out of his way a few times.

As for herself, she had been very careful not to slice off anything _necessary_ from her brother, though his _Bravo _uniform hadn't fared so well. One sleeve, he finally just tore off as it was hanging so open, the strip of silk that had been sliced and had trailed downward actually got caught up with his blade as he swung it. His ballooning breeches were rather more _vented_ than they had been to start. At one point, she advised him to remove the shirt completely because with the way the remaining tatters were waving in the breeze, it looked like he was hoisting his banners and some sellsword company could conceivably try to rally to him.

"That would be inconvenient," the Cat had told him with a grin. "How am I to spar if you're off conquering Ragman's Harbor with your sellswords?"

"You just want to see me half-naked," he had accused her with a laugh. She had smirked at that and slapped his belly hard with her blade then, earning a loud "Oomph!" from his lips.

"Only so I can inspect your _many_ bruises and wounds to know if you need a maester," she had countered with a smirk.

For her own part, her comfort with her two blades had grown and she began to feel that her arms could function independently from one another, even while they still depended on each other for balance and counterbalance. It was exhilarating to imagine being able to attack or defend against two separate foes at the same time, even as they pressed her from opposite sides and with different styles. _Not yet,_ she thought, _but soon. _Now, sitting at the fountain and resting, the Lyseni Bear was discussing her prowess.

"I just don't understand how a wisp like you can be so overpowering," her brother moaned.

The Cat laughed at him but made no answer. She honestly wasn't sure herself. Instead of explaining what he wanted to know, she deflected.

"I'm no wisp," she protested. "You only think that because you're so monstrously large. It's not normal, really."

He smirked at her and said, "No, you're a wisp. If I wasn't sure before, I am now."

She figured he was referring to her indelicate actions of a couple of hours past, when he had brought her the silly raiment and she hadn't thought twice about stripping down to her small clothes before him to don the stupid outfit. For all of her shyness before her master, it never occurred to her to be modest or ashamed of her body in front of her brothers. Of course, this wasn't strictly her body; it really belonged to a grieving sister (which also may have played a role in that particular demonstration of careless boldness by the Cat), but still, a body was just a means for wielding weapons and fulfilling the orders of the Many-Faced god. She could not understand what made people get so _squirrely_ about it all the time. _And why do you get so squirrely about it when it's Jaqen who is there to see you? _her meddlesome little voice whispered. She ignored it and tried to focus on what the Bear had just said. It was amusing to her that he seemed to think she should be modest with a body that was not her own.

The female _Bravo _laughed at the Bear, saying, "You don't know what you're talking about. You didn't see _my _body. This one is just a farce."

The boy snorted and said, "I have _always_ appreciated a good farce!"

She just shook her head at his false bravado, recalling how he had reacted when she began stripping her dress and petticoat from Mattine's body so that she might replace it with the bright silks her master had sent for her.

_"Gods, Cat!" the boy had cried, his face taking on a particularly beet-like hue. He turned his back to her and placed his large hands on his hips._

_She had laughed at him then, telling him not to be such a little maiden as she slipped into her striped breeches, though she wasn't quite sure the word "breeches" really applied to the ballooning, floaty pants._

_"If you want me to introduce you to Olive, you're going to have to develop a thicker skin or at least curb your tendency to be so easily shocked. Otherwise, you might faint straightaway from her brashness, and that will never do!"_

_"You're so bloody evil," the Bear growled at her, his back still turned._

_"You can turn around now, your holiness. I'm decent."_

"It's not your borrowed body I mean, anyway," her brother continued, seemingly more bold now that she was fully clothed and they were outdoors, in a public place. "I saw you once, when you were leaving the bath, and I had a hard time believing that the delicate little woman's body wrapped in that wet linen was capable of what you can do with it when you're dueling."

_Was there no privacy in the temple? Who _hadn't_ seen her leave the bath that night?_

"There has to be some sorcery at play," he insisted, and he only seemed to be _half_-joking.

"You can't understand it because your mind is as slow as your moves," his sister spat. "Men always underestimate women. I mean to prove that they do it to their own detriment."

"Careful, Cat," the boy warned with mock gravity, "One of these days, some man will _not_ underestimate you and you'll be conquered and tamed."

"Never!" she half-hissed, half laughed, springing from her crouched position and circling him _quick as a snake _to pounce on his back. He jumped up, carrying her into the air with him, laughing as he swung her around. Her arms clutched around his neck as he whirled like a top, and she grasped his waist with her legs to keep from being thrown off of him with the force he created by his motion. Her head spun dizzily and she laughed and laughed, pleading with her brother to stop or she would be sick.

"No more!" she cried out between giggles.

The boy obliged her and stopped, stumbling a few steps but managing to right himself without dropping his laughing burden. He then set her down gently, his arm wrapped protectively around her shoulders until she regained her balance. It made her feel half a child, reminding her of her horseplay with her brothers at Winterfell. Then she suddenly felt sad and her giggling died. Her brother sensed her sudden shift to moroseness and pulled his thick arm tighter around her.

"I have people I miss sometimes too," he admitted quietly, somehow understanding her mood.

_Maybe his mind is not so slow after all_, the girl thought.

"It's much better when I'm _no one_," he admitted.

"Yes," she agreed in a whisper. "Sometimes it is."

Across the Moon Pool, loitering just outside of the entrance to a raucous and popular tavern, stood a drunken sailor. He was leaning against the front edifice of the place just to the side of the window nearest the door. Though the two _Bravos_ took no note of him, the place being a particularly busy haven for drunken sailors, he seemed to be watching _them _as well as the strange scene playing out before him with keen interest through beautiful, bronze eyes that emoted a sort of _longing._

There was no one near enough to him to hear when he sighed and whispered, "Lovely girl."

* * *

It was two more days before the cook saw the man she was meant to kill. She would have known him even if he hadn't had his guard obviously posted to his right. Something in her, _in Mattine_, knew him. He wore a sad expression but it brightened considerably when Olive spoke with him, telling him what was being served that day from the Cat's kitchen. The cook almost laughed when she realized that she had indeed made lamprey pie that day, her thoughts from a few days back of poisoning his lamprey pie with Sweetsleep deftly poured over his food as she pretended to trip and fall being, at least in part, prescient.

_Though you'll not die today, my lord_, _despite the appropriateness of the meal, _the Cat thought. _At least not by my hand. _Today, she would observe. And learn.

The assassin mostly caught glimpses of the man as the door to the common room was opened at frequent intervals, allowing Olive to carry food out and Will to bring dishes in. Syrio was happily humming some tuneless song as he scrubbed away at the returning dishes and ran out every so often to help with some small task, either with the diners or upstairs with the inn's patrons. The boy had boundless energy and moved with a grace that seemed so appropriate to her, given his name. _Maybe she should try to teach him a little swordplay. He might be a natural._ Olive came in to ask for the young boy's help in clearing the guarded man's table of his platters because several people had finished dining all at once and there was too much for her to carry alone. Will was fetching water for one of the upstairs patrons for a bath and could no longer help her. The young boy bounded out after the wench happily and the cook wondered if he were perhaps _too_ happy to make a Faceless Man. _If he has even a quarter of the agility and instinct of Syrio Forel, he'd be a rare addition to the order though, _she mused to herself.

The Cat pushed the thought aside, scolding herself for her baseless sentimentality. She was sent here to complete a task, one sanctioned by Him of Many Faces. There was no instruction to adopt precious pot boys who shared a name with her beloved _dancing master. _She resolved to distance herself from the young Syrio a little more (the little moppet reminded her so much of Rickon that it was hard for her to avoid an attachment, though the similarity was probably a creation of her imagination more than any real commonality between the two boys. It had been so long since she'd seen Rickon, she wasn't even sure anymore that the face she pictured in her mind belonged to him). She had no sooner made her vow to stop thinking of the little pot boy as a possible apprentice when she heard a crash and then his cry and instinctively, she dropped the tankard she was about to replace in its cupboard. The Cat ran toward the child's voice _swift as a deer._

As Mattine burst through the door and into the common room, her eyes locked onto little Syrio, struggling against the choking grasp of the wealthy man's guard. The boy's small face was becoming red and he was dangling a good twelve inches off the floor as his little feet kicked back and forth. The guard was drawing a knife and he was too far away for the Cat to reach him before he used it so instead, she cried out in Mattine's voice.

"No! No, please! Please don't hurt him!"

She ran to the boy and the guard was forced to choose as she made her rapid approach. Sensing the girl could be more of a problem than the child (_now there's a smart man_, the little voice said as she noted the guard's identification of her as a potential danger), he allowed the boy to drop to the floor but kept hold of his scrawny brown arm and raised his knife, prepared to defend his charge if the girl should prove to be a threat. Hellind's lover, for his part, looked thoroughly flummoxed by the whole scene and sat mutely in his place, not moving at all.

The cook snatched at Syrio, pulling him away from the guard and his steel, demanding to know what the problem was as she pushed the boy behind her skirts. Olive approached the wealthy man's table, laughing lightheartedly, attempting to diffuse the tense situation. The Cat, ever wary despite the frightened and confused expression she pulled Mattine's face into, slipped the fingers of her left hand slowly beneath her right sleeve, preparing to remove the blade there if need be.

"Oh, it was a silly misunderstanding, wasn't it, Syrio?" the serving wench prattled animatedly, seemingly oblivious to the danger they were all in. "I asked Syrio to help me clear the table but the clumsy boy tripped and dropped a bit of crockery. Of course it was _smashed to bits_. Staaviros will have your hide for that, boy!"

The guard interrupted Olive gruffly, accusing Syrio of picking up a sharp shard of the broken pottery with the intention of stabbing the wealthy man's throat.

"Oh, no! No, Syrio would never do _that_ would you, boy?" Olive laughed, amused by the sheer ridiculousness of the assertion. "He's barely more than a baby! He means your master no harm, I assure you! He's only a bit clumsy, is all."

All of the commotion had brought Staaviros from the back and he begin plying the two men with his profuse apologies for the incident and reassuring the other few patrons still left in the common room that all was well. The wealthy man still had not spoken but Mattine could feel his eyes boring into her face uncomfortably. She turned to look at him, thinking, _I wasn't planning to do this yet, but I suppose the plans are now changed._ She slowly removed her fingers from the blade, leaving the steel in place, and moved one hand behind her back.

"My word, child," the seated man breathed. "Who _are_ you?"

"I'm Mattine, my lord," the girl replied, gently pushing Syrio further away from her and waving at him from behind her back to indicate that he should leave for the kitchen _now_.

"Mattine… Mattine?" he questioned thoughtfully. "Mattine, do you have a sister?"

"Did have, my lord," the cook replied, casting her eyes down in sorrow, borrowing the gesture from Lady Lyanna's likeness atop her tomb.

"Yes, yes of course," the man replied quickly. "I should have known immediately. The _look _of you... She was a member of my household staff. I am terribly, terribly sorry for your grief."

The Cat suppressed an urge to bury her blade in his temple and instead nodded delicately, her eyes still averted in sorrow, demonstrating to perfection the look of a girl who still grieves deeply but is trying her very best not to allow tears to spill in front of one of her betters.

"Do you work here, child? I did not know Hellind's sister worked. Or that she was so grown up… and so _lovely._"

He may as well have licked his lips for all the lust evident in his tone. The Cat felt the bile rise up in her throat and this time, instead of wondering if the reaction was hers or Mattine's, she _knew_ it belonged to them both.

"Yes, for a few days now," the cook answered him shyly. "After Hellind… well, I had to support myself."

"My dear child, why did you not come to me?" he asked and the Cat wanted to laugh in his face.

_Because, my lord, she went to the Faceless Men, and they agreed to give her everything she asked for, _the assassin thought. _I doubt you would have been so obliging. _

"I… I didn't want to impose," Mattine answered meekly, turning her eyes toward the man, looking the very essence of innocence and humility, and so very like her sister.

"Nonsense, girl! It's settled. You'll have a place in my household. Hellind… Well, she is missed very much," he said, having the effrontery to appear sad, but then quickly added, "She was most beloved by my wife and the other servants."

_She was most beloved by her master, who only wanted her in his bed as long as it was not inconvenient_, she corrected him mentally.

"Oh, you're so kind! But I… I can't. Staaviros needs me here and I couldn't abandon him after being here such a short time."

The man leaned toward her over his table and said in low tones that hinted at his lascivious nature, "I can be _very persuasive, _Mattine. Just say you'll think about it, and we'll speak again. Soon."

"Yes, my lord, I'll think on the matter. Thank you, my lord!"

The girl scurried back to the kitchen with as much nervousness as she could conjure at the moment, hoping to give the impression of a silly, harmless girl. When she burst through the doors, Olive was comforting a shaken Syrio, her arms around him, shushing him just as Jaqen had done for his apprentice when she took Mattine's face and then tried to peel off her own skin. _Seven Hells, why did I just think of that?_ the Cat wondered.

"That was a close thing," Olive said to the cook, and her voice had none of its characteristic buoyancy and flirtatiousness. "That guard would have put that knife through his neck."

The wench's mouth was drawn into a frown and her dancing eyes seemed filled with more hatred than the Cat could have imagined the tavern girl capable of summoning. She could not account for it.

"Syrio," Olive whispered as she pulled him tighter, "you must be more careful."

Mattine gave them both a strange look, trying to puzzle out what was happening and having no luck. Somehow, though, she knew that there was much more to Olive than she had first believed. She walked slowly toward the pair, her eyes illustrating her curiosity.

"Thank you for saving me, Mattine," the boy said, his voice quivering slightly.

"There is no need," the cook told him gently, placing her hand on his head, letting his silken curls pass through her fingers. _His hair is so fine. He really is barely more than a baby._ "When I saw that man eating in the inn with his guard on duty, I knew he must be a bit paranoid, but he's completely mad if he thinks a little boy like Syrio would be trying to kill him."

"He is very mad, but has reason to believe a little boy like Syrio might try to kill him," Olive confided softly.

"Oh? What reason could he have for such an outlandish fantasy?"

"Because Syrio _was_ trying to kill him."

The cook's look of astonishment was genuine. The Cat rifled through all of her possible responses to such a confession and settled on, "But… _why_?

"Because he's our father, and he killed our mothers."

The pieces fell into place with a nearly audible _click_. A wealthy man, purportedly a paragon of virtue, esteemed in his temple and social circle, philanders his way around Braavos, fathering bastards with impunity, and when his wife threatens to expose his follies if he does not give up his current mistress, he pays a hefty sum to a certain order of assassins for their unique services. And then he does it again. And again.

And one of those misbegotten children (or was it _two_) intended to have his vengeance. _A mother is murdered and a child awaits his chance to exact revenge on her killer. This is a story I know well. This boy really is a Faceless Man in the making._

Mattine knelt down before the boy, taking his face in her hands and looking into his near-black eyes for a long time. When she spoke, she ignored her previous vow to stop thinking of the boy and made a new vow, this one to the boy himself.

"Do you trust me, Syrio?" she asked him softly. When he bobbed his little head to her, she continued, "I promise you, I will take care of this man. You are to do _nothing_ that I do not tell you to do. Not ever. _Nothing_. Do you understand?"

Syrio nodded slowly, his eyes growing wider, never leaving hers.

"I will take care of this man," she told him, placing her hand over her heart. "He will never hurt you again. This is my solemn vow."

After Mattine rose, Olive gave her a piercing look, but merely pressed her lips tight and gave a sharp nod to the cook. It seemed a gesture of gratitude and understanding and it gave the Cat the queerest feeling that the tavern wench might know more than she was letting on. A few moments later, they all resumed their work as if nothing had ever happened. Syrio continued washing dishes, the cook continued straightening the kitchen, and Olive bounced her way around the common room, presenting a convincing image of a silly, lusty serving girl. No more was said about the incident. None of them were very hungry after all that had transpired, but though she ate nothing herself, the cook insisted that Syrio at least have a bit of cheese and bread. When the hour grew late, they all drifted to their various sleeping quarters and the Cat entered her small chamber. She realized with consternation that she had forgotten to throw open the shutters covering the window and the little room was boiling. She hopped atop her table in the usual fashion and opened the window so that after her sparring with her brother, she might return to a room with a more reasonable temperature. As she hopped down, she had a little trouble catching her breath, finding her corset felt much tighter than usual. She decided take the horrid thing off and change into the _Bravo_ silks before her sparring partner arrived. As she pulled the small sack full of the unreasonably bright clothes from under her bed and dumped them out on the mattress, she thought of what she had learned today about the wealthy man and her _friends_ here at the inn. A small kernel of doubt began to grow in her heart when she thought of Hellind. She assumed the story she was told about the reason for the girl's death was the truth, but what if the order was only made aware of part of the truth? Or, what if the council knew but had kept the complete truth from her? _Could Hellind have been with child? Was the prayer of the wealthy man a prayer for two deaths, not one? _Two deaths would honor the Many-Faced god as well as one, she knew, but the death of a child growing inside of its mother seemed...

She had to turn her thoughts away from the path they were taking. _Worry is not for us. _The heat and the corset and the events of the day made her feel light-headed and considering that she might have been complicit in the death of a babe bothered her more than she could understand. She tried to focus on what she would teach the Bear tonight when he arrived in _yet another _silly _Bravo _outfit (the one from last night being fit for no more than rags now, but that was the danger of sparring with sharp steel). Each night, Jaqen had sent the Bear to her and though he was still mostly awful, she felt her own skills improving, which pleased her. Her master had been correct—teaching was not the worst way to solidify her skills. She actually looked forward to her time with her brother now, though she still resented the clothes.

The girl had told the Bear that she would leave the kitchen door unlatched for him and that he should just come in when he was ready to play at being _Bravos_ again. It seemed near his usual arrival time, so she was expecting him at any moment. She was in her room, removing her dress and pulling at the laces on her corset when she heard him walk in. She didn't turn to face him, knowing his tendency toward coloring the most awful shades of red if he even _thought_ he might risk glimpsing her breast or thigh.

"Give me a minute," she told him, working to untie the knot at the top of her corset that the laces had somehow formed during all the commotion of the day. Her fingernails were too short and she was having trouble loosening it. Instead, she seemed to be drawing the whole corset tighter in the process. She was becoming rather breathless. "I just need to unlace this damnable contraption."

The next thing she knew, his arms were under hers and he had taken the knot from her. In order to get a more exposed lace with which to work, he pulled the corset a notch tighter. The technique was a success and he deftly worked the knot loose with unbelievable speed but she could only take the shallowest of breaths due to the constriction of her ribs during the process.

"A man wonders why his lovely girl insists on wearing clothes she cannot manage on her own," whispered a voice in her ear. "Was she perhaps anticipating her master's arrival in time to assist her?"

It made perfect sense that with all the excitement that had occurred under the inn's roof, Jaqen would choose that particular night for his first visit to his apprentice rather than sending her brother to spar with her in his stead. And, of course, she would be having some unusual clothing problem just as he arrived. And naturally, he would find some reason to wrap his arms around her and make her feel as if her skin prickled with chills and burned with heat all at once. Undoubtedly, he would have to speak to her in the common tongue, with his ridiculous Lorathi accent. And, of course, he would smell of lemons and cloves and…

Her breath caught in her throat and her heart began fluttering for no reason she could identify. _What is this?_ she wondered as an odd sensation began creeping up from her toes to her legs and then to her belly and finally reaching into her chest. Oh, gods, was she going to _faint_? No! She would never do something so stupid! Faint in her master's arms like some stupid _lady_ without the sense to wear clothes that actually allowed a woman to breathe properly?

_Not bloody likely! _the girl told herself gruffly, and then the world spun and went black.

* * *

**Nothing Else Matters**-Metallica

**Everlong-**Foo Fighters


	32. Chapter 32

**A/N: Tiny bit of foul language at the end. I know GRRM doesn't give language warnings, but since this is rated T and there is 2 seconds worth of "M" language in it, I thought I'd let you know.**

* * *

Having travelled throughout the known world as a knight, a criminal, a novice, a maester, a priest, a sellsword, and many other men with many other faces besides, and having functioned as a cherished advisor, a jealous lover, a close confidant, and once, even as the righteous sword of a little highborn girl, Jaqen had been witness to all manner of situations. Therefore, during the course of his life as a Faceless assassin, the Lorathi had seen _many_ women faint. Some did it, it seemed, as a mere matter of convenience. Some, because they were ill or malnourished. Some ladies fainted because, like his Cat today, their clothing was far too restrictive to be practical and when they had want of breath, they found it was not available to them. He had seen even men faint at the sight of gore and blood and splintered bone amidst the screaming and groaning of the wounded of war and this was a common cause of fainting among those women exposed to such scenes as well. At funerals, at weddings, at clandestine meetings, during times of great pain or strife... Women fainted. But never his lovely girl. Not once in the years he had known her had she ever collapsed. Not under the weight of crushing grief. Not when ill (though she was rarely ill). Not when exhausted or excited or frightened. Not when snatched from her bed in the middle of the night and tossed from a window into the murky depths of a canal. Not when asked to do things no child should ever be asked to do or see things no child should ever have to see. Not when threatened by fiends who could crush her as easily as a walnut between their filed teeth and mailed fists. Not once when he had touched her, either with his hands or with his steel, whether in fondness or anger or with false aggression meant to instruct her.

And so this collapse had alarmed him.

Her master recalled that she had not even fainted when he had wiped his blood-smeared blade, its edge thick with bits of bone and tissue, across her chest so very long ago. In fact, as a mere child at Harrenhal witnessing the slaughter of battle within the melted and blackened walls where she was misused and treated as no better than a slave, she had not even appeared wan or pale, but instead looked... _powerful. _She had shown a sort of strength then which had shocked him, so remarkable was it for such a small girl. Arya, who had named herself _Weasel, _had looked _alive _in that moment and it almost seemed as if there was a light radiating from within her; a glow formed completely of her own joy of _creation. _She was filled with the wonder of her budding realization of her power to spawn chaos and death; to compose calamity like a poem; like a song; like an intricately woven tapestry of retribution. The girl, beaten and threatened, grieving and angry, had rained down pain and blood and disaster upon those she deemed responsible for her woe with just a word. Or, more precisely, with two words: _Jaqen_ _H'ghar_, her third name. The Lorathi had shown her the evidence of her power in the thick smear of red with which he painted her white shift, branding her as the audacious and formidable creature that she was, telling her that she was the glorious architect of carnage in words a small child could understand. _A girl should be bloody too. This is her work. _She had looked down at the stain upon her breast and her master recalled that the sight of it had brought a tiny smile to her lips. He would have spent more time marveling at her reaction had he not had more of the Red god's work to do just then; more of _Arya Stark's_ work. The Ghost of High Heart was not wrong when she had wailed about a darkness within Lord Beric's young hostage. There was a profound darkness within the girl—Jaqen had seen it with his own eyes. It had almost seemed to reach out to his own, revealing itself to the only man who had ever crossed Arya's path who could fully appreciate it. He had _felt_ her darkness in the core of him and, at that moment in Harrenhal, he had seen it in her ghost of a smile.

And it was _beautiful._

* * *

After ridding his apprentice of the knot at her breast that had confounded her and then suddenly finding himself unexpectedly holding the burden of her weight as her knees betrayed her and she fell back against him, Jaqen lifted the girl in his arms and crossed the short distance to her bed where he placed her gently, her drooping head caught by her thin pillow where Mattine's abundant curls now rested. He then quickly stepped into the kitchen and rifled through a likely looking cupboard, finding the herbs he sought after a few moments. He crushed a small pinch of the dried, green leaves he had found under the girl's nose as he sat down next to her on the bed. Shortly thereafter, she curled her lips into a slight frown, wrinkling her nose as her eyes fluttered open. She seemed confused and her gaze flitted around the small chamber, settling only for the briefest of moments on any one of the room's various features as if trying to find something familiar to her but having no success.

"Lovely girl," the Lorathi cooed to his apprentice softly, drawing her eye to his false face, the face of a wealthy Braavosi merchant, "if a man had known you would go weak in the knees at his touch, he would have bid you to just leave on your _damnable contraption_."

The girl groaned, closing her eyes and then trying to sit up, but she looked paler than her master liked, so he pushed her shoulders gently back into the mattress when she attempted to rise.

"I couldn't breathe," she explained to him faintly, "and it was so hot in here. I think I forgot to eat…"

"A man knows," he reassured her. "And perhaps, a girl was also surprised to find her master had come in place of her brother, hmm?"

She nodded, for it was true. Her master's expression seemed unconcerned, but there was something in his eyes, just for a moment, that appeared almost..._ troubled_. But that couldn't be-she hadn't eavesdropped on any conversations not meant for her ears or followed any Faceless Men surreptitiously around the docks. The Cat could think of no cause she had given her master for any worry. The look quickly dissolved and then his fingers were at her corset laces and he said, "A girl should try not to faint this time." He tugged at the thin ribbons, quickly pulling them loose and then the garment released her ribs, causing a sensation of sudden _lightness_, an ability to just _breathe _which made her feel almost euphoric. She sighed with the relief.

"Much, much better," she moaned. The breeze coming in through her open window was helping as well. "I feel almost myself now."

"That is very good, lovely girl."

His tone was tender and she felt her heart flutter again. She began to wonder if there might be something really wrong with her, some sort of illness that had not fully declared itself. Surely it could not be normal for a girl's heartbeat to feel like a frantic sparrow trapped in her chest. Inwardly cursing her weakness, she pushed up on her elbows as she addressed her master.

"Shall we spar now, Jaqen? I'm fine to stand."

"No, sweet child. There will be no sparring tonight," he told her as he guided her back down to her previous supine position.

"But… But _you_ said that I was to spar with two blades _every day_ until you said otherwise!" she protested, worried he thought her too frail to stand and fight. She _hated _when others considered her weak, particularly her mentor. _I feel fine now, anyway_, she thought.

"Just so; until a man said otherwise. And a man has said."

She crossed her arms over her chest and scowled at her master, saying, "I'm not _infirm_, Jaqen. I'm not some frail creature who has to take to her bed for a fortnight because she felt bloody _dizzy_."

"Hush, belligerent Cat. A man did not come here to spar with you. A man came here with the purpose of teaching his apprentice how to create flame with just her words."

The girl's scowl melted away in an instant and she popped up again, her excitement visible in her eyes which had taken on the appearance of molten metal. She bit Mattine's lip in anticipation. Her mentor resisted the urge to trace the line under the lip with his finger and pull it from between her teeth.

"But, a man will teach you _nothing_ if you get up before he says you may," her master scolded.

She rolled her eyes at him but lay down obediently. He smiled at her, but the gesture carried a hint of worry in it as he stroked her cheek with the back of his hand.

"A girl's color is too pale," he murmured.

"A girl's color was _always_ pale," she retorted. "I'm from the _North_."

"Yes, but _Mattine_ is of Essos, _not_ the North," he reminded her and felt a touch of satisfaction that she puckered her lip slightly and looked chastened at his reminder. She quickly ruled her face, however, and presented a defiant expression to her master, jutting Mattine's chin as she crossed her arms over her chest. He sighed, partly admiring her feisty demeanor, partly irritated by it. It was always a battle with his lovely girl. She was never content, never settled, never truly happy; at least, not for long. For all his lamenting of her contradictory nature, he found that he himself was torn between wanting to laugh delightedly at her foibles and wanting to spank her for them as if she were a naughty child. If he could stand to send her away from him, his life would become suddenly much less complicated, yet he could not bear the thought, for it would also make his life infinitely less meaningful.

_Arya Stark. Please do not take her from me._

"You _know_ I've never had any trouble with this sort of thing. It's just that stupid corset. I'm not accustomed to it," the Cat told her master. "You really don't have to worry about me. A little faint never hurt anyone."

"Yes, lovely girl, but a man has never before seen you quite this ghostly."

When he purred the word _ghostly_, her mind was drawn back to her dream of Winterfell and her father sitting atop his tomb in the crypts. He hadn't appeared pale in the least. But, she supposed a _ghost_ and a _dream_ were not the same. Her face must have revealed to Jaqen some hint of her thoughts drifting off to consider an unrelated matter, because after a moment, her master placed his finger under her chin, directing her eyes toward his own, and asked her where she had gone.

"Winterfell," she whispered, without a trace of artifice.

This seemed to surprise him. She wondered what answer he had expected.

"A girl spends much of her time in Westeros these days," Jaqen observed. "First, with her wolf and then with her friend _who is no knight_, and now in Winterfell. Will a man need to find a new apprentice soon? Is a girl planning to leave her master and voyage westward?"

_Arya Stark. Please do not take her from me._

"Well, according to the plans I _inadvertently_ overheard the Kindly Man discussing with you, I'll be expected to undergo my final trial and take my vows in a short few weeks and then you'll have to get a new apprentice anyway," she remarked matter-of-factly.

The assassin did not seem eager to discuss this further with the acolyte at the moment and instead, rose from her bed, saying, "A girl has said she forgot to eat."

"There was... a little _excitement_ here earlier. I felt rather too tense to eat. I should have, though. If I had, I surely wouldn't have fainted," she told him, hoping he believed her, because that was the truth. _So, it had nothing to do with finding yourself in your master's arms unexpectedly? _the little voice whispered to her. She shook the question off, refusing to accept such a thing was even possible. She had not eaten, it had been hot, she couldn't breathe, and there was _too much of consequence_ happening at the inn for her to think that merely the closeness of her mentor had been the trigger for her embarrassing collapse.

As she spoke, Jaqen walked through her door and into the kitchen once again, looking for anything he might feed the pallid girl. He found a half-loaf of bread that was not stale and some figs. He placed these on a clean platter he retrieved from a cupboard and brought them in to her along with a small cup of wine.

"Does a man need to be concerned not only with his apprentice's inability to undress with any degree of skill but also her failure to feed herself?" the Lorathi asked as he placed the cup on her table. The Cat scowled at him but said nothing, hoping that if she did not engage him, his teasing would end. She would not be so lucky.

"A man fears that your _Kindly Man_ will be loath to allow a girl to take her vows and travel to far off lands, only to starve herself to death before completing her assigned task," he continued as he seated himself on the edge of her bed, taking his place next to her once again. Jaqen balanced the platter on his knee and chose a fig from it, holding it up to the girl's mouth. She glared at him but bit into the ripe fruit, chewing silently. When she had swallowed the bite of fig, her master pulled a bit of bread from the loaf he had found and offered it to her. She could hold her tongue no longer.

"Are you going to feed me like you're my nursemaid?"

"Since a girl cannot do this thing for herself, what choice does a man have?" her master asked her, pushing the bread against her lips. She grudgingly accepted the bite but even her chewing radiated resentment. After another few bites of fruit and bread, she felt much restored, though she would not admit it to Jaqen. He allowed her to sit up, resting her back against her pillow and headboard, so that she could sip the wine. She looked distrustfully at the cup when she saw the stuff was _red_.

"It is not sweet, lovely girl," the merchant chuckled.

Tentatively, the Cat sipped the red wine, finding it a little sour. Somehow, it felt good once it hit her belly and after a few minutes of sipping the wine and picking at the bread, she began to feel relaxed, less irritated with the whole situation, and happy to see her master.

"I've been trying to teach the Bear," she told him between swallows. "He's hopeless."

"A girl must be patient," her mentor advised her. "Not all who pick up a sword are gifted with your natural ability. Sometimes, a difficult pupil also has a lesson for the master; one regarding diligence."

His pointed look made her flush but she could not be sure if the color showed in her false face. She supposed she had, at times, been a _difficult pupil_. To avoid having to hold his gaze, the girl dipped her chin to sip at her wine once again, considering her next words.

"Am I a terrible burden to you, Jaqen?" the girl asked meekly, her eyes cast down upon her cup. She could feel her master looking at her.

"Since when does Arya Stark care who she burdens?" the Lorathi asked her with amusement.

"I'm not Arya Stark," she replied automatically. "I'm no one."

"But we both know that isn't true, don't we, lovely girl?" the Lorathi murmured softly.

It was a problem that he had pondered much of late. The girl fixed her mind upon Westeros, upon her mother, upon her brother, upon her _wolf_ more and more often lately. It seemed to him that since he had leapt from the gangway of the Dragon's Daughter and onto the docks of Ragman's Harbor, the girl had _regressed_ in her training as it related to shedding her attachments and identity even as she progressed significantly in her other skills. She considered her old grudges and held them deeply, and though he ought not have, he satisfied them for her where he could, bringing her news of Ser Gregor's death, and bringing her the hearts of men she had hated for so long, she could no longer recall their faces. This has been his challenge over the course of her training: how does a master make a willful girl give herself up? It was only more recently that his challenge had changed. Now, he wondered, how does a master give up a willful girl?

Arya's stubborn hold upon her identity had troubled him greatly, especially since his return to Braavos a few weeks back. He had worried endlessly that she might incite the anger of the principle elder for her inability to be _no one_ and then he became increasingly concerned that her _special abilities_ (he still could not reconcile what she could do with the term _warging_ because it did not seem to quite fit) would make her a target of one sinister plot or another. He awaited some terrible judgment to be made upon her or a dreadful consequence to befall her, but none came. That is, not until she was bound and gagged and thrown into the canal to drown. But then, even this he could not be sure was as a result of her inability to embrace the creed of the order faithfully. With what had happened, how she had escaped, and the strange fact that someone had bothered to attempt to implicate him in the plot, it felt more like a _test_ than a murder attempt. And, of course, there was the fact that if the _Faceless Men_ had determined that a person should die, then that person _would_ die, yet his lovely girl lived. But then again, tests were straightforward things in the House of Black and White. A man might not know when he was _being_ tested, but he certainly learned fairly quickly whether or not he had succeeded at what was expected of him once the test had ended. Yet, there had been no word, no congratulations, no sad disappointment expressed to the girl. Indeed, the incident had not been addressed at all, except for between himself and his master. Jaqen had been thinking much on this matter since he sent his apprentice away to play the part of Mattine. Why had the girl been allowed to flout the advice and commands of her _Kindly Man _repeatedly, and with impunity? The Lorathi was beginning to believe that the only way he would discover the truth of this matter was if the principle elder chose to divulge it to him.

The silence stretched out uncomfortably between them and finally, the Cat felt compelled to fill it.

"Olive has been rather curious about our... _relationship_," she told him and then took another sip of her wine.

"_Olive?_" the man queried, cocking his head.

"She's _plump and delicious," _the girl supplied as a bit of the resentment she had held but then dismissed against the wench seemed to return all at once.

"You have lost a man, lovely girl."

"The tavern wench you're so fond of flirting with every chance you get," she clarified, her tone sounding perhaps a touch more vexed than she had a right to be. "Anyway, she always asks about you, or rather, she asks about Mattine's _handsome man,_ and I realized that we'd never discussed the... specifics of… of our affair, and I didn't want to say something that might be contradicted later, you know... when you _inevitably_ flirt with her again."

The merchant's grin was broad and genuine, his eyes crinkling with delight, and he asked, "Is Mattine the jealous sort? Does she doubt her lover's devotion to her and worry that a _bouncing tavern wench_ may steal him away?"

She ignored his jesting and nearly whined, "I don't even know what to _call_ you!"

His smile suddenly seemed more wistful than teasing when he said, "A man is happy to let you name him."

"Marco, then," the girl offered after a moment's consideration, choosing a name common to the higher classes in Braavos, the equivalent of Willem or Edric in her native land.

"Marco. Just so. A man is now Marco. What other details does a girl require a man to know so that he will not contradict her while he flirts with this plump and delicious _Olive_?"

Her glare was utterly predictable but what she said next was not.

"I'd like to know if you think there is any chance you'll marry me."

Her words caught her master off his guard and his teasing smirk froze on his face. He opened his mouth as if to speak, but no words came. His eyes narrowed slightly and locked onto hers, false eyes looking into false eyes, trying to find some truth, some understanding in them but there was none to be had. When he said nothing and merely looked intently at her, the girl tilted her head slightly and regarded him, wondering what his hesitation was.

"It doesn't matter to _me_," she explained, looking at him uncertainly, studying his odd expression, "but it seems like something Olive would ask and I'd hate to have told her _yes,_ there was a plan to marry or something similar and then have _you_ undermine my story by whispering something else entirely in her ear. I need to be believed while I'm under this roof. Being credible will make my task much easier."

The merchant's handsome face seemed to relax a bit as Mattine spoke and his eyes looked more unconcerned than they had previously. He had been leaning slightly toward her before she began to speak but now leaned away, sitting up a bit straighter on her bed. Her master still had not answered her question, however.

"We should just agree on our story is all I mean," the girl prompted.

"What does a jealous cook think _our story_ should be?"

"Hmm..." the girl stalled, taking another sip of her wine and letting her eyes drift upward and to the right as she considered his question. "Braavos is definitely a society with much more social tolerance than Westeros, so it's entirely possible a rich merchant class man might be smitten with a cook and choose to marry her. However, if we claim to have such an agreement, it might make it difficult for me to take advantage of the opportunity which presented itself today."

He was both confused and intrigued. His look and a small hand gesture indicated that she should explain herself to him, and so she continued, reminding him that she had already mentioned that there was a bit of excitement at the inn that day. The Cat recounted the incident between Syrio, her mark, and the guard in detail, knowing how her master relished full accounts (almost as much as the Kindly Man) and then told him of the wealthy man's offer to take Mattine into his household, no doubt to replace his relationship with Hellind by embarking upon one with her younger sister and look-alike. _Of course,_ the offer had been couched as a charitable act of a selfless man , as the wealthy man was renown for his goodness around Braavos. The apprentice had been considering the offer and after the initial distaste wore off, she began to see what a fortuitous occurrence the wealthy man's proposition was. She was still talking about her realization that this could be the best thing possible for accomplishing the work of the Many-Faced god when she saw the expression on the merchant's face and stopped abruptly. She had not yet related the part where she learned that Syrio had indeed intended to kill the wealthy man or why.

"What is it?" she asked, alarmed. He looked... _aghast._

"_Why is a man only hearing of this now?_" he demanded, a scowl marring his handsome Braavosi features.

"Because... I was... _unconscious _earlier?" she said in a sarcastically uncertain tone. Her flippancy did nothing to assuage her master's irritation with her.

"Does a girl think her master has sent her away from the temple so that she might leave one dangerous situation only to purposefully thrust herself into another?"

"Well... I _am_ training to be an _elite assassin_, so... Yes?"

His look was acerbic, his tone even more so when he replied, "Did your master not tell you that this dead man was _dangerous_? Did a man not also say that part of your task was to return to him _unharmed_? A wealthy man takes an armed guard with him wherever he goes. _How many of them does a girl suppose a wealthy man pays to guard his home and his family?_ But a girl believes that moving into this home, this _well-guarded _home, is an intelligent idea? A grand opportunity? And when this wealthy man decides to pursue the object of his lust, what does a girl plan to do then, under this well-guarded roof?"

The Cat was surprised by the vehemence of Jaqen's objections. She had thought he would see, as she did, how perfectly set up she would be to accomplish her goal if she accepted the wealthy man's offer of employment. She understood, of course, that she would need to keep her wits about her and stay on her toes, but then, when was that _not _the case for an acolyte of the House of Black and White? She had recently been reminded that even in the dark of night when sleeping in one's own bed, one _still _had to be alert and prepared! She certainly felt qualified to stave off the advances of a lusty Braavosi with a paunchy belly and she felt no threat from the pathetic sellsword he kept at his side, a man whose best days were past him and whose skill with a blade (especially the small, throwing variety) surely in no way matched her own. Being in the household of Hellind's lover would give her access and opportunity that she would not get otherwise. _Surely_, her master could see that.

The apprentice sat her cup of wine on Mattine's little table, resting it next to the flickering candle she hoped her master would still teach her to light with flame created of nothingness. She sat up straighter and placed her hand on her master's shoulder in an almost comforting gesture. She knew that after Jaqen had invested years of his life in training her, instructing her, and safeguarding her (sometimes from herself), that he was bound to feel a bit _protective_, but she was mere weeks away from taking her vows and it was inevitable that soon, she would be alone somewhere, fending for herself, delivering the gift of death and carrying out the wishes of the Many-Faced god on her own. He needed to make his peace with the fact that he could not always be there for her. And though it made her a little wistful to think on it herself, she realized (and wanted _him_ to realize) that she didn't _need_ for him to always be there for her. Because of all he had done for her, because of his training and his patience and his _diligence,_ she was ready. She did not fear to go into the household of the man marked for death. She knew that she possessed the wit and skill she needed to perform her duty and then return to the temple unharmed, just as she had been directed by her master.

"Jaqen," the girl said in Mattine's soft voice, "I understand your concern and I _appreciate_ it, probably more than you know. But I am going to do this thing, and I would like for you to not be worried while I do it, because this is what you have trained me for. I am not afraid."

Setting the platter he had been balancing on his knee next to the girl's cup of wine on her little table, the Lorathi then placed his hands on his knees, leaning forward over his thighs in thought. He sat quietly for a long while, and all the time, the Cat rested her palm against his shoulder, feeling the heat of his skin through the dark blue linen of his tunic. Finally, her master pushed himself up and looked at his lovely girl, wearing the face of a grieving sibling, and smiled sadly before he spoke.

"So, the wedding is off?"

The girl bowed her head in gratitude for her mentor's respect of her judgment and then begged him to show her the flame trick.

"A man will teach you this trick," he agreed, "and, if you allow him the use of one of your fine, sharp blades, he will show you what he can do with blood as well."

* * *

There was a buzzing that seemed to emanate from somewhere beneath the Cat's breast and it spread throughout her body, causing a slight vibration she could feel all the way to the tips of her fingers and toes. It was an excitement at having mastered new skills. _And what skills they were_, she thought giddily. Her Cat-appropriate mood shone forth from Mattine's face and tone and step that morning in the kitchen such that Olive remarked upon it as soon as she pushed through the door to see what the lovely Myrish girl was making for breakfast.

"I _knew_ it!" Olive declared, her voice making her words an almost joking accusation. "He _came_ last night, didn't he?"

Mattine smiled but said nothing.

"There's no use denying it, I can see that you look tired and yet giddy at the same time. That usually means one thing."

"It means I was up late, but I'm in a good mood anyway," the cook laughed. "Everything doesn't have to be about… _that_, Olive."

"Oh, yes it does!" the wench declared. "So, did he bring you anything? Something _useful_, maybe?"

The cook couldn't help but burst out laughing at the serving girl's suggestive tone when she said the word _useful._

"Yes," she admitted, "but not in the way _you _mean."

"More's the pity," the tavern girl lamented with false sorrow.

Before Olive could press the cook for more details, the Cat decided to distract her with the one thing she knew could unquestionably capture the wench's attention.

"Olive, I think I may know of the perfect man for you."

"Don't tell me you're giving up your handsome man already!"

"No, this one is more of an age with you, though he's handsome enough."

The wench's interest was definitely piqued, and so the Cat set about matchmaking for her brother and her… _friend?_ It struck the acolyte as odd that it did not feel wrong to think of the wench this way. And yet, even before her training among the order of Faceless Men had instructed her to be _no one_, she had only ever had a very few friends. Was this truly how friends were made?

Nightfall arrived quickly at the inn, or so it seemed, so busy were they all with their duties. Syrio looked nearly to be asleep on his feet when she and Olive shuffled him off toward his bed and even the bubbly tavern wench's bouncing curls seemed deflated. The cook knew she would be a dueling _Bravo_ once again after they had all said their good nights. Her master had told her he could not come back this night and would send her brother to her in his stead. Her hands itched for their blades and so it was with pleasant anticipation that she awaited the arrival of her brother _Bravo_ but she found she was still disappointed that she would not see Jaqen (and she refused to dwell on why that was. She reminded herself that she only ever allowed herself to feel _hate._ Hate and _anger. _These other strange feelings that had been attempting to bubble up ever since Jaqen's return to the temple were foreign to her and she did not understand them, which confused her. The Cat _hated _to feel confused.)

Tying Mattine's hair in the silken scarf with the scattered starbursts, the Cat turned to extinguish her candle so that she might practice at relighting it. Before she had succeeded in blowing it out, though, she caught the hulking form of her bear-like brother in her peripheral vision, stalking through the kitchen just behind her open door, and whirled to face him.

"You're very quiet for one so large," she told him admiringly. "I've never noticed that before."

"I've been working on it," he admitted. "I had thought to creep up on you. For practice."

She snorted, and in a flash, she had palmed her wrist blade and had it at his throat.

"Wouldn't have been advisable," the Cat informed him.

"So I see."

Just as quickly as she had pulled the blade out, it was gone, tucked once again safely beneath her sleeve.

Shortly after the Cat had threatened the Bear with her small blade, she was beating him mercilessly with her larger ones. After a time, however, she heard Jaqen in her head, reminding her to be patient. _And _diligent. And so she stopped harassing the boy with her flurry of sharp edges and instead, stood back and gave him instruction. He seemed to breathe a sigh of relief and tried to follow her directions. When this, too, produced little in the way of measurable improvement, she thought about it some more and then walked up to him, looking as if she might punch him in his gut. He actually flinched slightly as she pressed her balled up fist into his belly, pushing against him with enough force that she was satisfied he could feel it deep inside of himself.

"Listen to your gut," the girl said, thinking back on the things her master had told her once. "You need to _feel_ it here. Your gut will give you direction, but you must listen to it."

The large boy nodded, and he truly seemed to understand what she was saying, though she was not sure that would translate into his being able to _use_ the advice in any practical way. She reasoned that the only way to know was to try. She raised her two blades again and bid her brother to do the same.

"Let's dance," she said, nodding to him.

* * *

Though he was far from proficient, the Cat had to admit that her brother had shown some small improvement that night. He at least did not look like a tottering buffoon with his two swords anymore and actually had once been able to turn his crashing sword at the last second so that the glancing blow she received the her thigh was with the flat of his blade rather than the sharp edge. She ought not to have been in a position to receive the blow except that she had allowed herself to be distracted for a moment by a figure in an alleyway near the tavern across the pool. The man (the size of the figure suggested a man, anyway, but she had learned among the assassins of the order that assumptions were merely _assumptions_ and not proof) was too far away for her to see any features but the face seemed turned toward them and moved to follow their dance around the pool. _Someone was watching them. Was he friend or foe?_

This time, when they took their rest near the pool, the Cat sat facing the the water (and the figure in the alleyway) and allowed her brother the spot leaning against the low wall of the fountain. Despite their distance from both the tavern and the seemingly watchful eye of the alley's inhabitant, she kept her expression light, her face carefree. Just because she did not see his features in the dim alley did not mean he could not see hers under the moonlight bouncing off the waters of the pool.

"Do you remember when I said I knew a girl who was perfect for you?" the girl asked her brother.

"Are we at this again? Cat, if you want me, you just have to say so. I guess I owe you, after all the time you've spent teaching me how to have my clothes sliced to ribbons and all the effort you've spent making sure I have adequate bruising."

"_Idiot_," she muttered and the boy laughed.

"Who is this paragon of womanly virtue?"

It was the girl's turn to laugh and then she said, "If there was _one way_ I would _not_ describe Olive, that would be it."

"Oh? Well, how _would _you describe this _Olive_?" the Bear asked, suddenly interested. His sister cocked her head and looked at him as if she was carefully considering her answer and then her mouth curled into a mischievous grin as she found the perfect words.

"_Plump and delicious."_

The lithe _Bravo_ threw her head back and laughed heartily at her brother's shocked expression. As he thought about her words, though, the boy's face became less-shocked and more delighted. His sister told him that he should find some fine clothes in the vaults below the temple and come to the inn for the midday meal on the morrow (she also suggested he _not_ tell Umma what he was about, or else she might get miffed at his skipping her cooking for the food at an inn.) She would arrange the rest. The girl appraised him seriously for a moment and then told him that he could wear a false face if he chose, but she thought he ought to keep his own countenance.

"You're handsome enough for her," the Cat declared.

"Do you think so?"

"Well, _passably_ handsome," she qualified with a teasing smirk. "If you bring her a gift, she's yours for sure."

She wasn't sure why she was bothering with this, it was really such nonsense. It was just that Olive seemed to love the idea of being in love, and the Bear seemed a suitable enough object for her affection, and if the Cat couldn't make him proficient with two blades, she could at least give him a lighthearted distraction before his final trial. After he said his vows, who knew where he might end up going? One of the other free cities? One of the cities of Slaver's Bay? Asshai? Possibly even across the Narrow Sea to take part in the hellish war that drug on in Westeros. After their duel in the training room not so long ago, the Bear had given his sister his respect, and so she wanted to give him what little joy she could. Olive was nothing if not joyful. _At least, on the surface..._

As the two of them stared past each other and considered the possibilities of the Bear's association with Olive (the girl wondered if Mattine would be forced to listen to stories of their sweaty exploits between Olive's sheets while the cook tried to bake the day's bread and her brother wondered if the tavern girl might consent to hold his hand as they walked along the docks), a trio of swaggering _Bravos_ approached the Moon Pool, spoiling for a fight, as ever. Their disposition was evident in their ambling strut, hands resting lightly on sword hilts.

"_Bear_," the girl hissed at her brother quietly. "If those puffed up fools try to engage us in a fight, beg off. But if they won't be dissuaded, don't try to duel them with both swords."

"I know you think I'm an idiot, sister," the boy hissed back, "but I'm an idiot who doesn't plan to get poked full of holes by a _Bravo_."

She nodded to him, and the pair did their best to give the appearance of being at ease, not in the least interested in dueling. The Cat watched the movements of the _Bravos_ warily, and it seemed to her that the dark figure in the alley did so as well. Since the swaggering peacocks were much closer to her and her brother than their mysterious observer was, she spent most of her attention on them, figuring that if the man in the alley became a threat, it would be obvious to her in plenty of time to react.

About that, the girl was wrong.

As the trio of men approached, the Cat noted wryly that they were dressed even more ridiculously than the disguised acolytes. She realized that she recognized one of the _Bravos,_ a fair-haired man with a long scar that ran across his jaw to his chin, a wound that had been acquired sometime after she had last crossed his path. He was older, though she doubted he was wiser. _Orbelo_. Frankly, with his questionable blade skills and his brazen attitude, she was surprised that he was still alive. He must have been blessed with incredible luck.

_Maybe today his luck would run out._

The other two, she did not recognize. They appeared younger than Orbelo but older than she and her brother. They had a more typical Braavosi appearance, dark hair, dark eyes, and olive skin. They looked like they could be Mattine and Hellind's brothers.

The Cat's muscles tensed as the trio sauntered toward the seated acolytes. Her hand did not move toward either sword but she noted the precise location of both hilts, resting on the cobblestones to either side of where she was sitting. She was not afraid to duel these ridiculous pretenders but after sparring for so long, she was afraid her brother might be weakened or fatigued and she wasn't sure how well his usual lumbering, crashing style of swordplay would match up with the _Bravos_' favored water dancer's style. She was certain that she and her brother could prevail, but she was less-certain that she could get the Bear home to the temple uninjured and felt it wiser to not fight at all, if possible.

"My friends and I believe you are no real _Bravos_," Orbelo said by way of greeting the Cat and the Bear.

"Your friends and you are wrong," the Cat told him simply, her knee bent casually and her hand resting upon it and she lounged on the ground. She did not think she could rise without it being perceived as a challenge and so she kept her relaxed position.

"Are you calling us liars, little whore?" Orbelo asked, his voice sounding dangerous. It was obvious that he was trying to provoke her and the Bear. _Rule your face._

The Cat shrugged, ignoring the insult, repeating, "I'm saying you and your friends are wrong. Now, run along. My brother and I have no wish to duel. We've already had our fill tonight."

The three arrogant swordsmen laughed as if they had never heard anything so funny. The girl flicked her eyes briefly to the alley to see that the shadowy man had moved a few steps closer to the street but did not seem inclined to approach them further. He was still much too far away for her to need to figure him into her strategy.

"What about you, you great mound of flesh?" Orbelo addressed her brother. "Have you had your fill of dueling?"

"I always let my sister do the talking for me," the large boy replied, leaning his head back against the lip of the fountain wall as if too tired to engage in further banter.

The laughter of the antagonistic _Bravos_ was even more uproarious at the Bear's words. After Orbelo caught his breath from his guffawing, he asked the Bear how he could let a _little girl_ do his talking for him. The blonde man's tone dripped with derision and he was wrapping and unwrapping his fingers around his sword hilt, obviously aching to draw his steel.

"That's no little girl," the Bear assured them, his eyes meeting his sister's. Her lips curved up into her malicious little smile as she returned his look and then nodded almost imperceptibly to him before he continued, "That's a demon masquerading as a little girl."

As the words left her brother's mouth, the Cat knew that they would almost certainly be taken as a challenge, but she tried her one last strategy in hopes they could avoid bloodshed.

"This _little girl_ learned her swordplay at the feet of Syrio Forel, the First Sword of Braavos," she revealed, hoping that one or more of these men might also have been pupils or admirers of Syrio and that this would buy she and her brother a pardon for the sin of being present when the trio arrived at the Moon Pool. Though her _Bravo_ clothing was gaudy and silly, she had no wish to stain it with the blood of these three idiots and risk the next outfit her master sent her being even worse.

"_Syrio Forel was a fucking camel cunt,_" hissed one of the dark _Bravos_ who had been quiet up until that point, and after he said it, he spat. The thick glob of spittle landed on the toe of the Cat's boot. _Though the clothes were awful, she rather liked the boots._

_This one will die first_, she vowed and then whispered, "Valar morghulis."

The Bear leapt to his feet with his fine longsword in hand and the Cat followed him, grabbing both of her blades as she did. Throwing the steel out wide in an open-armed gesture of welcome, her face changed, abandoning her passive expression and arranging itself into a frightening smile. She spoke in a low, growling voice, inviting the _Bravos _to dance with her.

* * *

_**Big Parade**_-The Lumineers (mostly because of the "Lovely Girl" lines. Also, because... _Lumineers_)

**_All the Above_**-Maino ft. T. Pain ("How the hell could you stop me? Why in the world would you try?")

**_The Underdog_**-Spoon ("you have no fear of the underdog, that's why you will not survive" Ha ha! Silly _Bravos_...)


	33. Chapter 33

The Bear lay bleeding near the Moon Pool as the Cat softly cursed, yanking the scarf from her hair and using it to bind her brother's wound up tightly. She thought it would heal fine, Orbelo's blade seeming only to have pierced the meat of the Bear's upper arm (thankfully _not_ his sword arm), but he was bleeding quite freely from the puncture and she began to worry about the sheer quantity of the blood running down his arm, soaking his colorfully striped sleeve and pooling on the stones where his sword now lay. The Cat did not wish for him to faint from the blood loss, mostly because he was _too damn big_ for her to carry.

"Well, the dead peacock was right about one thing," the girl told her brother as she pulled the scarf tighter over his injured flesh, nodding her head slightly toward the nearby crumpled form of the now notably less-audacious Orbelo. "We _aren't_ real _Bravos_."

Her brother snorted and then moaned, admonishing her then for making him laugh; it hurt too much, he said.

"Don't be such a weak little maiden," the girl scoffed, her tone gruff. "It's just a little flesh wound. You'll be fine."

"It's not the arm. I think I broke a few ribs when I fell," the large boy explained, wincing. "Hurts to laugh is all."

She had seen him land awkwardly, his chest crashing against the stone edge of the low wall around the pool as he fell to the ground. Her brother's heels had gotten caught against the lifeless arm of the first of the dark _Bravos_ the Cat had dispatched a few moments before her brother's feet met the dead man's still limb. The unfortunate contact occurred as the large Lyseni boy reeled away from one of Orbelo's cuts aimed at his neck. In employing the great, clumsy, whirling motion, the Bear had saved his head but lost his balance. As he fell against the lip of the raised pool, he had felt at least two ribs snap and had been fairly robbed of his breath by the exquisite shock of the feeling. His brain had told him to thrust his longsword up and skewer Orbelo through his scarlet and emerald clad belly but the immediate paralytic power of his pain had not allowed his arm to obey his thoughts. Orbelo had raised his skinny little skewer, aiming it at the Bear's heart and just at the moment that the large acolyte felt with certainty was his last (_his thought, oddly enough, was that he would never meet the buxom tavern girl with which the Cat had been trying to match him)_, a thick stream of blood fell over Orbelo's lower lip like a crimson waterfall and the blonde _Bravo_, his eyes wide in fantastic surprise, fell forward, landing next to the Bear on the cobblestones near the pool. The large Lyseni apprentice could not understand what had just happened as he stared at the still body of the dead_ Bravo_, but then he looked across the plaza and saw his sister, wearing her false face, striding across the cobblestones toward him with speed. She called out to him, her voice heavy with worry (expressed as a string of curses she could only have learned skulking about the docks of Ragman's), asking if he was alright. And then he knew.

_She never goes anywhere without her throwing blades._

The puncture through his upper left arm burned like dragonfire, but he would have been alright if not for his own clumsiness. It was the cracks in his ribs that really bothered him. He had been holding his own with Orbelo, despite the blonde man's use of the slithering quick-strike style of swordplay that his sister favored, the so-called _water dancer's _technique. The Bear had been a little worried for his sister, seeing how the two younger _Bravos _were attacking her at the same time, and he allowed himself to look quickly over at her so that he might be satisfied that she was fine (and, of course, she was). The distraction was just enough for him to be late in blocking a thrust from the fair-haired _Bravo _and so he was unable to knock the blade completely away, suffering the wound to his non-dominant arm. Still, it had not slowed him and until he had reeled gracelessly away from that last desperate blow of Orbelo's and tripped over the corpse of another _Bravo_, he had been pressing his opponent, driving him back.

After the girl who looked like Mattine had tended her brother's wound, she moved to the corpse of the man who had instigated this whole thing and roughly rotated his head, turning his face away from her. At first, her brother thought she just couldn't stand to look upon the blonde man's countenance, but then he saw her pluck her dagger from the back of the _Bravo's _neck. With a look of irritation at her blood-spattered silken blouse, she shook her head and sighed, wiping the small blade clean upon her own breast before she seated the steel in the usual spot, in the leather sheath strapped to her wrist.

"Thank you, sister," the boy said sincerely. She gave him a roll of her eyes and then asked him if he could walk. He said that he could but let out a great cry when she pulled him to his feet, his arm going protectively to his own ribs, pressing against the injury like a make-shift splint.

"I'll walk you home," she told him.

"There's no need," her brother assured her. "I can manage the distance, no doubt."

The Cat shook her head at him, telling him he was a great fool if he thought she would let him walk alone, so injured, when any other idiotic _Bravo_ might be roaming about in the night, ready to challenge him in his weakened state. He accepted her wisdom and nodded gratefully to her, waiting for her to put her two swords in her belt. She did, and then put his swords in _his_ belt for him, saving him the task of bending to retrieve them, and he had a sudden, unbidden thought of a wife girding her husband for battle in one of those strange _Westerosi_ tales of chivalry that his brother Rat used to tell him when they were just green boys. He shook it away, not bothering to wonder at the image. There was a small part of him that said he should be embarrassed that his sister was walking him home, playing guard to him, but he wasn't embarrassed in the least. The lessons of _we are all but instruments of the Many-Faced god _and _skill is skill_ had been long taught to him in the House of Black and White, but the truth of those words had never been more apparent than they were the day the Cat had bloodied his nose and disarmed him without seeming to break a sweat. Skill _was_ skill, he had learned in the training room that day in a convincing way, and it mattered not where it was found. He was glad of her skill and would not deny that it was much greater than his own, knowing that it had saved his life this night. He would never disdain it, or her, again. Others would only do so in his presence to their great regret, he vowed, but he did so knowing that this was like to cause a rift with his brother Rat.

"Eyes sharp for other swaggering fools," she warned him as they began to walk toward the Isle of the Gods . She took his arm around her shoulder to offer what support she could. "And try not to faint, because you'll crush me."

He snickered and then groaned and then growled at her for making him laugh again but she did not seem to feel any mirth. The Bear thought she was acting strangely, considering that they had just beaten three _Bravos_ rather decisively and the only casualties were a minor flesh wound (_his_) and some cracked ribs (_also his_) that he chalked more up to his lack of grace than anything else. The Cat thrived on strife and blood and steel; this was well-known among the assassins and apprentices of the order, and there had been plenty of all three tonight. Why, then, was she not… _happier?_

"Sister, were you injured?" the large boy asked with panting breaths, his chest stabbing him with pain for each inhalation.

"No," the girl replied shortly. She looked warily about them, her eyes scanning their path, her ears pricked for sounds of anyone following them. She seemed too tense for this to be about wandering _Bravos_ but did not seem inclined to share her worry with him so he stayed quiet. What his sister was not telling him was that the shadowy man, the one who had watched their sparring and then stayed to watch them duel with the _Bravos_ in the plaza around the Moon Pool so intently, had vanished from the dim alley when she knelt to help her brother with his wound. She couldn't be sure he wasn't stalking them now, intending them some harm, and so she remained vigilant. She knew he wasn't just a casual bystander or interested observer by the way he had coolly watched the entire duel without seeming to react in any way.

_The false Bravo, wearing both Mattine's face and the laughable clothes her master had chosen for her, had whispered, "Valar morghulis" and then risen from the ground at the dark boy's vile words about Syrio. The insult of the spittle was an annoyance, but to the Cat, voicing anything besides the utmost respect for her first, and greatest, dancing master was simply unforgivable. She threw her arms out wide in a grand gesture of invitation, the sharp points of her Bravos blade and bastard sword facing east and west, respectively, as she spoke in her menacing tone to the three dead men._

_"A young maid is so very fond of dancing," she told them, the words sounding ever so much more sinister as she said them into the moonlit night around the Moon Pool than they had when she had used them sarcastically with her brothers and master recently. Her lips curled into their terrifying smile, made even more disconcerting by Mattine's wide, innocent doe eyes sitting above it. "Who will oblige me?"_

_The Cat pulled her body into her modified water dancer's stance, the one her master had critiqued and corrected slightly the last time they had sparred. Orbelo had immediately leapt at her, thinking her a quick conquest by virtue of her small stature and sex, but she turned his blow aside easily, barely moving more than her one arm, her action crisp and quick. The two dark Bravos had jumped into the fray as the Bear engaged Orbelo, drawing the blonde swordsman off of her. She had been pleased at that. She had made a vow, after all, and the man who had dared to insult Syrio would die first._

It might seem that a girl who is faced with two opponents at once must be at a great disadvantage. This assumption, of course, fails to take into the account the quickness of the girl, her own skill with her blades, and also the fact that two opponents attacking a common foe must also be mindful not only of their shared target but of each other as well, lest they cause accidental injury to one another or get their feet caught up together, resulting in tripping or stumbling. Whenever the Cat had pictured herself battling multiple foes at once, she often forgot to take this truth into account as well, and so she found that battling the two Braavosi men was less difficult than she had imagined it would be. Still, it did require great effort and concentration.

_She tried not to let the mysterious figure watching her (for it did truly seem to her that she was the object of interest to this man as the fight progressed. His head remained turned in her direction, regardless of where the other participants in this duel found themselves) distract her from her more immediate tasks, which were to keep all of her limbs attached to her body, to avoid any sharp steel which might mar the integrity of her skin, and insure her life's blood continued coursing through her veins rather than allowing it to be drained away, staining the stones beneath her feet. Still, she couldn't help but note dark figure inching closer to the edge of the alley, nearly in the street now, but not advancing far enough into the moonlight for his face to be revealed._

_The swords of the dark-haired Bravos seemed to slice at her in a conveniently alternating fashion, allowing her to parry each of their blows in rapid succession, her typical speed preventing her from having to use her swords simultaneously to perform different feats, though she began to feel as if this were entirely possible. Something seemed to be happening to her. He skin was tingling from the top of her scalp to the soles of her feet and she felt simply… aware. There was an alertness such as she had never felt and a calm had descended upon her mind that was quite unlike anything she had ever experienced before. A sort of power radiated from her very center and pulsed throughout her body and it even seemed to stretch along the sharp edges of her steel, making her blades feel as if they were one with her, somehow an extension of the very bone and sinew of her arms. As improbable as it was, she found that in this moment of dizzying movement and danger, she had at last discovered the stillness about which the Kindly Man had tried to teach her._

_For all the months she had been pondering the elder's words, practicing her unmoving stance in the dining hall, learning to measure and restrict even her breaths so that they were undetectable, moving like a shadow through the corridors of the temple of the Faceless Men, she had misunderstood what it was the Kindly Man had meant. Even when she had commanded herself to stillness in times of stress and strife, she was only able to rein in her natural state of frantic energy enough to focus on the problem before her. It had been enough, and so she had mistook herself for a master of stillness, but no matter how still she appeared on the outside, inside, she was always in a state of spinning chaos. Her mind was perpetually unsettled, constantly moving, stalking and circling her ideas and troubles like a wolf, her gut frequently writhing like a nest of vipers, her heart fluttering beneath her breast like the wings of a dragonfly or frenzied bird._

_But not now. Her bones felt as though they vibrated with her awareness of everything happening around her but inside, in her mind and in her heart, she was perfectly still. It was the exact opposite of what she had been doing all along with her insides roiling and mind tumbling while her exterior took on the unmoving appearance of Lyanna's statue sitting atop her sepulcher. The Kindly Man had promised her that when she finally found a moment of stillness, she would learn that it was neither life nor death but that it was, instead, great strength and acute awareness. She felt the truth of his words now deep inside of her; so deep, that they were now a part of her._

"Cat," the Bear began quietly, interrupting his sister's memories of their duel and pulling her roving eye from its constant scanning of the street and alleyways to his own face, "I've never seen you do the things you did tonight. Is that what the Lorathi has been teaching you?"

"Maybe if you'd been paying attention to the things _Orbelo_ was doing instead of the things _I_ was doing, you wouldn't be bleeding all over my scarf right now," his sister answered him sourly.

"I'll bring you one that suits you better tomorrow," he promised, smiling at her. "Those weren't your colors, anyway."

_Jade and turquoise, accented by gold and red? She was quite sure those weren't _anyone's _colors._

"Do you really think we'll be dueling tomorrow, you oaf?" she hissed at him, yanking his slipping arm firmly around her neck and shoulder to give him more support. His strength seemed to be flagging a little. The Cat wasn't truly upset with her brother. She was angrier with herself for not keeping him from harm and she was a little concerned that she had lost her sparring partner for the foreseeable future.

The boy winced as she readjusted his arm and then said, "No, I suppose I'm off dueling for a bit, but I wasn't planning to let a few cracked ribs and a little cut keep me away from the inn for the midday meal. I want to meet this tavern girl of yours."

She looked at him in disbelief. He would have been bleeding to death in the plaza at that very moment but for the good fortune of the last of her opponents obliging her and dying just in time for her to turn and see Orbelo about to run her brother through. She had only just stopped the braying fool in time and it had been a close thing. If everything had happened two seconds later, the Bear would be among the corpses now resting upon the cobblestones around the Moon Pool. The large boy had nearly forfeited his life, and yet here he was, thinking only of meeting Olive with all the romantic silliness of Sansa pining for a prince she barely knew.

_I wonder if his chest feels like a sparrow is trapped inside of it_, she wondered, but she dared not ask him. She didn't like the thought of answering the inevitable questions to which such a query would likely lead.

The Cat said nothing, but set about casting her eyes back and forth across their path once again, looking for some threat that did not seem to exist. The Bear was quiet for a while but then brought up the subject he had initially tried to introduce only to be chastised by his sister for the inattention which resulted in his injury.

"Where did you learn how to fight like that?"

He was specifically referring to her nearly undefinable movements which had made her seem almost as if she were flying through the air between the two dueling _Bravos_ who commanded her attention. He had only ever seen his brother Rat make such moves, a sort of acrobatic tumbling and leaping the boy had been trained to perform when he made his home with a travelling mummer's troupe before coming to live with the Faceless Men. Though the movements seemed like something he had seen the narrow-faced Westerosi boy display on several occasions, his brother had never quite used them like the Cat did today.

_The girl looked more like an enraged, feral feline than a Bravo as she leapt from side to side, giving each of her opponents their due attention in turn, pressing first one man and then the other in rapid sequence that her brother (and the Bravos themselves) found dizzying. At one point, it seemed as if the men had finally understood her rhythm and managed to seize upon the same plan at the same time, meaning to thrust their swords at her from different angles, all at once, one Bravo's sword nearly a mirror image of the other's. Somehow, the girl anticipated this and just as the sharp points of the blades pushed toward each side of her torso in an effort to stick her with their pointy ends, she gracefully launched herself up into the air, pulling her body into a spinning mass with blinding speed, rolling effortlessly through the night, over the blades of the men which then clashed with each other rather than skewering the girl's body as intended. She landed on her feet and whirled around, swords at the ready, greeted by the Bravos' wide, startled eyes. She took advantage of the astonishment of the men, the foul-mouthed Bravo seeming particularly stunned by what he had just seen. He attempted a clumsy thrust toward her heart but she spun around on her toes, truly seeming like a maiden who was fond of dancing, and the narrow blade merely sliced the air where she had only just stood, missing her entirely._

_Her move had brought her to the side of the man and he turned to face her but it was too late. He was already dead, though he didn't yet know it. _

_The girl had thrust her large bastard sword through his chest, the tip emerging between his shoulder blades, and as she pushed it in further and brought herself closer to his ear, she whispered, "When you see Syrio Forel in the Nightlands, try to keep a civil tongue in your head. He's less forgiving than I am." And then she gave a great cranking twist with her sword hilt and watched the light fade from the man's eyes._

_The other dark Bravo had been standing behind his brother's body as he was impaled upon the Cat's sword and as the first man died, the second man gave the girl a look filled with hatred as he watched her push the corpse off of her blade with the sole of the very boot upon which the dead man had spat. The apprentice allowed the lifeless body to fall to the ground near the edge of the Moon Pool. It would be this corpse that would soon cause her brother to stumble, but she did not know this at the time._

"Some things, Jaqen has been teaching me," she told her brother as they limped toward the Temple. They were near the bridge that crossed the Long Canal. So far, she had seen nothing suspicious and began to feel that they were probably safe, but did not want to let her guard down until they were on the other side of the ebony and weirwood doors.

"I know he's been instructing you with two blades, but… that… _flipping_. And _spinning…"_

"You can thank the rat-faced boy for that," the Cat told him.

"I know he is adept at tumbling and acrobatics, but I have never once seen him use those skills the way _you _just did."

"No? I suppose he doesn't realize the potential he has to be a great warrior then. His tumbling is obviously much better than mine."

The Bear looked at her skeptically, saying, "I don't know, Cat. Your tumbling seems pretty… advanced."

_The girl could hear her brother's steel crashing down and meeting Orbelo's blade. She and the remaining dark-haired Bravo were moving further from the pool as it seemed that the Bear and Orbelo were moving toward it. Better to give them a wide berth as she finished this arrogant cretin, she thought. She did not wish to risk getting tangled with either her brother or Orbelo until she was done with the task before her. Her back was to the pool and therefore also to her shadowy stalker, but she could feel his eyes upon her, the hairs on the back of her neck standing straight with the sense of being watched. For a moment, she attempted to project herself toward the man, feeling for him with her mind, trying to see if perhaps she might get some sense of him or his purpose. She felt herself almost there, having some small impression of him; of his face, perhaps... She sensed, suddenly, that he was a handsome man, but then her opponent distracted her with a powerful blow that forced her to dance aside and her mind snapped back to itself, focused only on her foe._

_The Bravo she was dueling had been silent the entire time, but for his laughing when Orbelo was trying to instigate the fight. He changed that as she harried him with a flurry of blows that he only narrowly avoided. He was more skilled than his foul-mouthed friend._

_"How can a little girl do these things?" he grunted at her, retreating from her thrust with the blood stained bastard sword._

_"Didn't you hear my brother?" she asked. "I'm no little girl."_

_"Then who are you?" he demanded, and she thought that in his position, it was rather bold of him to be asking questions. Still, she obliged him, grinning wildly as she came at him again, the smaller of her blades finding the man's hip and opening a wound there._

_"Valar morghulis," she said._

_The man's mouth dropped open and his eyes went wide with the realization. She almost felt sorry for him, so she extended him a reprieve, backing away from him a bit so that she could make her offer outside of the reach of his blades. He made no move to follow._

_"My brother and I just want to go back to our temple to serve," the Cat told the Bravo. "I'll leave you in peace if you walk away now."_

_The man's wide eyes slowly narrowed and he looked at the ground, his gaze settling on the still form of the corpse there, the one who resembled him so closely._

_"You may wish to leave with _your _brother, but that is _my_ brother," the dark-haired Bravo told her, and his message was clear. There would be no truce. The girl knew well the call to action that came from the spilled blood of one's own family._

_ She bowed her head to him in acceptance and then ran at him with speed, almost looking as if she planned to tackle the man. He stood his ground, planting his feet and readying his sword, determined to strike at her with one great blow when she came near enough, just as she expected he would. As the man leveled his cut, sending his sword in a great, horizontal arc and delivered a slice that should have separated her into two parts, an upper and lower half, the girl dropped to her knees as she had done before in the training room, sliding beneath the Bravo's blade with her back arched behind her and her swords pointing back toward the edge of the Moon Pool. Just at the moment when she was sliding past her opponent and he was bringing his sword uselessly back across in the arc opposing the one he had just created, she brought her steel up with force, and both of her blades bit into the man's arm, one just below the elbow, one just above, separating the limb from his body. His severed hand still clasped the hilt of his sword as it dropped to the cobblestones next to him and he fell to his knees, screaming. The Cat quickly popped up and whirled around, approaching the crippled Bravo from behind. She gave the man mercy, grasping both sword hilts in her right hand as she deftly snatched the thin blade from her wrist with her left. She was on the Bravo in an instant and used the small dagger to open his neck, the blood gushing from the wound and drenching her sleeve as she drew her blade across his flesh. As he toppled forward and landed with a thud, the girl saw her brother stumble over the first of the men she had killed and land awkwardly against the low wall of the pool. Orbelo was facing away from her, raising his steel for a death blow and without pausing to think, the Cat drew back the hand clutching her dagger and then let her small blade fly, willing it to stop the Bravo and save her brother. The dagger buried itself to the hilt in Orbelo's neck, severing his spine just below his skull._

"You did well tonight, Bear," the Cat offered, unprompted. "You just need to be more aware of your feet. _Obviously_."

The boy smiled a small smile, appreciative of his sister's remark as well as her assistance as they made their way slowly up the steps of the temple.

"It's no easy thing to match your style against the style of a water dancer," she continued. "You held your own. That's noteworthy."

"Cat, I think that one day, you'll make a fine master."

"Hmm," the girl answered, considering his words. "I suppose I'll have to pass my final trial and take my vows first, though."

The boy nodded, his thoughts drifting to his own final trial, looming ahead, and said, "Well, whatever it is, it can't be any harder than what we just did, right?"

The girl turned to look at her brother's face for a long moment but made no answer, because the truth was, she wasn't so sure he _was_ right.

* * *

The Lorathi and his sister were discussing his misgivings about allowing the Cat to enter the household of the wealthy man she was charged with killing. He and his sister shared similar sensibilities and he thought he might find a more sympathetic ear by speaking with the small woman than he had when he had addressed his apprentice's plan with the principle elder. He soon found out that he was mistaken, however.

"Really, brother, I don't understand the problem," the waif was saying as she walked with him from the large dining hall. The supper had run very late that night, a spirited discussion regarding the moral implications of using dragons in warfare having erupted just as the meal had seemed to be winding down.

"A man is confused. Does his sister really not see how dangerous this could be for a mere acolyte?"

"A mere acolyte on the _cusp_ of taking her vows," his sister reminded him. "And more skilled with a _vast_ array of weaponry than any Faceless Man to ever train within these walls since… since _you_."

Jaqen seemed about to object but the waif stopped by the pool in the main temple chamber, gazing across it and holding up her hand to her brother, arresting his words on his lips.

"Consider this, brother," she began, turning to face him. "How would you feel if it were the Westerosi boy or the large Lyseni boy who was entering the wealthy man's house to complete this task?"

"Oh," he scoffed. "That is different."

"Really?" the woman asked him gently. "How so?"

"Boys… _men_… are not preyed upon in the same way women are. It is _entirely_ different."

"My, my, brother," the waif said in a haughty tone, "I never believed you were so _contemptuous_ of females."

"A man has no contempt," he protested. "It is merely a fact that…"

"It is _merely a fact _that the girl's skills in every way exceed those of the two boys I mentioned. She is more capable of successfully completing this assignment than either of them would be, yet you admit that you would have no problem sending them into the same situation in her place," the waif pointed out. "She made the _Tears of Lys_, brother. She wasn't even paying attention and she perfected the poison. _And_ the principle elder values her above all the others. I can tell by the way he speaks about her and the allowances he makes for her."

At her last words, the gaze of the Lorathi narrowed but he did not have a chance to question his sister about her observation before she was gently admonishing him.

"Brother, I think you ought to reflect on what is driving your worry."

The Lorathi looked at his sister, his eyes unfathomable. He cocked his head and seemed about to say something when they both heard the great doors of the temple bang open and turned to see who had entered at this late hour. When Jaqen's eye fell upon Mattine, covered in blood, supporting her large brother, he rushed to her side, the waif at his heels.

"Are you hurt?" he asked the girl quickly, his tone short but even, although his bronze eyes were frantically inspecting her, looking for a source of the blood she was wearing. Her arm was _drenched_ and there was a huge smear across her front.

"No, not me," the girl said, and then bobbing her head toward her brother who was draped over her, she continued, "It's him. He's got some broken ribs, I think, and his arm has been pierced."

"Come, boy," the waif directed him tersely, turning on her heel to lead the Bear to her work room. The boy removed his arm from around his sister's shoulders and smiled at her in gratitude before he limped off after the tiny woman who would give him something to stave off infection and ease his pain. Mattine and Jaqen watched them go and then the Lorathi turned to the Cat.

"I should probably get back to the inn," the girl said before her master could address her. "I don't want to be missed."

"Lovely girl, the _blood_," Jaqen said, ignoring her insistence that she had to leave. "Whose…"

"A trio of _Bravos_ who overestimated their skills. It's a long story."

"A man would hear this tale," her master said, taking her unstained arm in his and leading her down the corridor and past the dark fountain. "And we should find a girl some clothes which are less... _decorated _with gaudy crimson."

"Jaqen, the Bear will be unable to fight for a time, I imagine, with those cracked ribs."

"Just so."

"How am I to continue my training?"

"It seems to a man that a girl has found new partners with which to spar. There is no shortage of _Bravos_ near the Moon Pool." His expression was smirking and she knew he was not serious, but she balled up her fist and punched his shoulder anyway.

"Remind a man to teach you how to throw a proper punch," her mentor told her. "Do not worry, lovely girl. A man will see to your training."

The Cat began to slow down, her steps becoming sluggish as her adrenaline drained from her and the exhaustion at having worked a long day at the inn, then sparred, then dueled, and finally dragging her brother across Braavos set in. Her lids drooped a bit but then she remembered something and it made her pop her eyes back open, jerking her head toward her master, boring into him with Mattine's wide, doe eyes. Jaqen raised his eyebrows at her, awaiting her words.

"There was someone there with us besides the _Bravos_," the girl told her master. "A man who stayed in the shadow of the alley near the tavern across the Moon Pool from the inn. You know the one I mean?"

_Indeed, he knew the one._

"He was there when the Bear and I were sparring, just watching us. Then, when the _Bravos_ approached, he seemed to become more interested and he moved closer to us, but still not close enough to see. He just… _watched_."

"Anyone might watch a duel. For some, this is entertainment."

"I can't explain how I know it, but I know he wasn't just some bystander watching a duel. He was there to see us specifically. To see _me_, I think."

Jaqen looked sharply at his apprentice when she made her assertion and his grip on her arm tightened almost imperceptibly. But, the Cat was perceptive, and she felt the change and the worry it signaled.

"What?" she whispered to him.

He just shook his head and stared ahead, obviously considering her words and their possible meaning. He did not speak again before they reached the bath.

"A man will retrieve your robe. He knows just where you left it," he told her as he helped her pour the water from the kettles warming over the dying fire into the great tub. "Can a girl manage her bloody garments or must a man cut her out of them?"

The Cat rolled her eyes at the Lorathi and then he was gone and she was left in her sticky, gaudy raiment in the dim bathroom. She saw an unlit candle sitting in a small spot carved into the stone wall next to the door and approached it.

"Nar 'amala," she whispered, holding the image of the unlit wick in her mind lightly. She gave a small, satisfied grin when the thing flamed to life. Wearily, she pulled off the ruined clothes, leaving her daggers in a small pile next to the metal tub, and hopped into the basin, the water so hot it made her skin sting and turn pink almost instantly. The bath took on its own pinkish cast as the blood that had soaked through her blouse and adhered to her arms and chest began to soften and drift into the steaming water. She found a large chunk of the waif's soap on the floor next to the tub and quickly lathered herself, meaning to clean her skin of the red residue as quickly as possible and get out of the tub before her master could return.

As she scrubbed herself, her mind drifted back to the dark figure in the alleyway and her impression of him. It was so cursory that she couldn't be sure it was even real. Had her mind just created the idea of a handsome face or had she perhaps seen more with her eyes than she realized while dueling? Or was the impression truly lifted from the man's own mind, the way she had seen brief glimpses of Jaqen's thoughts when they were separated by his bolted door? How could she ever be sure? She mulled this over as she rinsed the soap and scum from her skin, the froth collecting on the surface of the water looking pinkish in the dim light, just like the water. The girl splashed her face a few times, scrubbing at Mattine's skin with her fingers, and then satisfied that she was as clean as a cook needed to be and notably less bloody, she pulled herself up and out of the tub, dripping as she padded her way to the pile of clean, folded linen in the corner. She swathed herself in _two_ large linen wraps, looking somewhat like a small, fluffy, Mattine-shaped cloud and then stood in front of the dying embers in the hearth, enjoying their warmth upon her feet and legs. She was surprised that her master had not yet returned with her robe but did not wonder at it too much. _He might have stopped in to check on the Bear. Or else, he had found some poor acolyte roaming the passageways and had snuck up on him and threatened him with a blade, admonishing him for not staying alert enough._ She snickered to herself at the thought, relishing the idea of someone else being at the receiving end of some of Jaqen's less-pleasant _instruction _for a change.

As her brief moment of amusement faded away, the girl stared into the embers of the fire, glowing red hot, and felt her eyelids growing heavy once more. As she gazed into the hearth and saw the few small flames dancing near the corner of the firebox, she felt her eye drawn to the center of the red and orange tongues. As her gaze softened, she thought she could almost make out a face in the flickering light. A _handsome _face. No, _two _faces; the second one not so handsome, but somehow... _familiar_.

* * *

"She is as you said," a low voice whispered from beneath a dark hood. The features of the face were hidden by the deep shadow thrown by the hood but had they been exposed to the light, anyone gazing upon them would agree that they were undeniably handsome. "It is quite remarkable, really. How did you know?"

The eyes of his companion were pale blue and piercing, but it was with a memory that came from behind a pair of dark eyes set in a swarthy face that he recalled a tiny hand gripping a tiny sword. The handsome man's companion smiled his tight smile which did not reach his blue eyes and he said, "It was always meant to be so. Did she see you?" At his question, he raised his eyes to gaze into the blackness of the hood and somehow, he seemed to find the handsome man's eyes buried in the shadow there, holding them as he awaited his answer.

"I'm certain that she did, though no more than a silhouette," the taller man assured his companion. "She knows she was watched. She does not know by whom."

"Hmm," the smaller man mused. "She may be much more on her guard now. If she is _too_ wary... But still, I am grateful to you for bringing me this report. I cannot witness her skill for myself, for obvious reasons."

The handsome man nodded his understanding, asking his companion, "What would you have of me now?"

"She has a task. I need you to see to it that she completes it, but do not interfere unless her life is at serious risk. I would prefer she not know you are there, but after tonight, it may be unavoidable. Still, tell her as little as possible while keeping her trust, if it comes to that."

"She does not know what you are planning," the handsome man responded. "Either here, or across the sea."

"She does not know I am _alive_," his blue-eyed companion corrected and the hooded man cocked his head, not understanding, but not needing to. "And for now, it must remain so." The two men grew quiet, each thinking about the girl and what awaited her in the near future. Each thinking about her likelihood of success or failure at the task before her. Each thinking how this would shape the plans already set in motion. The handsome man spoke first, making an observation that he felt would prompt his companion to reveal more of this plan to him.

"She will be the sharp point of the long sword you will wield from here."

The handsome man's companion nodded, murmuring, "Just so" before he looked up, gazing across the dark waters of the bay and out at the ships moored in the distance, their inky shapes just detectable in the brilliant moonlight. "But the entire objective of sharpening that point is garnering her trust and protecting her life."

"Indeed? Not to be used as a weapon?"

"This girl may be a warrior and an assassin but in the end, this is not her true purpose. All of her skills are meant to ensure she survives long enough to serve that true purpose."

"And what _is_ that purpose?" the handsome man prompted.

"What purpose does any woman serve in this world?" the cryptic man replied.

* * *

**_Diamond Eyes (Boom-Lay-Boom-Lay-Boom)-_**Shinedown (there are no shortage of awesome, Arya-kicks-ass songs out there, but after considering multiple options, this one seemed to fit the best)


	34. Chapter 34

The wind blew sharp and cold off the water, rustling the fallen leaves on the ground and causing them to swirl about her feet like tiny cyclones. She bristled a bit as she padded to the edge of the forest of mixed hardwoods and evergreens, feeling the cold even through her thick coat. There were no weirwoods here in this wilderness; it was too far south, and so it did not feel like a proper forest. Even the scent was wrong. She had arrived, once again, in the place where the air smelled more of salt than trees. The last time she had seen this village, it had been bleak and forlorn, with as many of the ale houses and shops and homes ruined and abandoned as were inhabited and working, but it was worse now. Much, much worse. The entire settlement was defined by burnt tree stumps, collapsed and blackened remnants of huts and barns whose shapes were merely suggestive of the original structures, and barren patches of ground not fit for anything besides trodding over in the hopes of soon being elsewhere. The charred ruins were all older now and so no longer smoldering; not for a long time. But still, there were the dark scars of the fire scattered all about and she could smell the soot with her sharp nose. It was not fresh, but it was there, the faintly acrid scent of scorched earth and stone and trees. There were some sound structures as well, newly built, and earlier, she had seen a few people milling around them. _Prey_, some part of her thought. _Food._

_No, not prey. Just people working, repairing nets and boats, or selling the bounty of the waters, bundled against the cold, _some other part of her answered.

There was life in this desolate place, but little enough of joy. The people had a watchfulness about them; a sense of pressing on but always with one eye looking back in sadness. Life here, near the water, was tentative and wary and careworn, the way life inevitably was after injustice and horror had visited a place. This village had endured great tragedy and it had not yet recovered. Maybe it never would. She had known the village once; had known the waters and the traders and the captains pulling into the little port. Or, at least, the girl inside of her had known these things, but even she did not recognize it now. The girl inside of the wolf felt sad, as much as she could be made to feel sad in the face of horror anymore. This place was a part of her story, although it was hard to believe it as she looked upon the desolation with her wolf eyes. Here, she had sold a horse for coin to take her over the waters, but it was another coin that had bought her passage.

_Valar morghulis_, she thought and her wolf skin bristled once more at the memory.

_That was long ago, when she had been here. There was no trace of her now; she had sailed away from this poor little port and was not like to come back. Who would return to such a place?_

She had first led her cousins to the location of the great, hulking knight and the children cloaked in their innocence. _The inn_, the girl in her thought. _The inn at the crossroads._ They had arrived there too early. Here, it seemed she had come far too late. There was no lingering scent of the girl. She knew inside of her from a shared memory that she _had_ been here and she also knew that she was here no longer. Sometime after the girl had left, _this_ had happened. This ravaging; this scarring of the land; this breaking of the people. Did the girl leave her wildfire trailing in her wake, consuming all that she left behind? _That couldn't be; all that I desire to destroy lays before me, not behind._

_Revenge. Retribution. Justice._ These words meant nothing to a wolf but they stoked the wildfire within the girl and it burned on, fed by her hatred and anger. It was all that was left to her, despite her own unique talents and the very real magic that existed in the world and all the things unknown and marvelous and powerful.

For all the dragonglass candles; for all the visions in flames; for all the dragons which now darkened Dornish skies; for all the foreign words coupled with blood that imparted small abilities; for the all the strange and extraordinary ways her consciousness could be willed to move from place to place without restriction, betraying its inconstant nature; for all the skill that no broken girl should possess; for all the love that no broken girl should be able to engender; for all of the respect and power and wealth her very name should command; for all the consideration she should receive for a birthright or resemblance or prophecy; for all the intensity of a bond between girl and wolf (a bond so strong that it was as if distance and time and the whole of the sea and the land between them was but a single step or half a breath or nothing); for all of this unexplainable and unimaginable power that pulsed through the world, emanating from one heaven or another, from one god's hand or another's, from one source or another, she could still not be given what it was she really wanted.

None of it would make her father breathe again. None of it would make Lady Stoneheart be Catelyn Stark again. None of it would raise Robb or Grey Wind. None of it would change the sickening way Bran and Rickon had died. None of it could rewrite Cersei's words that led to Lady's fate. None of it could erase the day she ran into the stables and recovered Needle and then used it to take her first life. None of it could restore the destiny that was meant for Arya Stark. For all of the magic that there was in the world, for all the dark power, for all the wondrous and mysterious and unfathomable things, the past could not be repaired or restored to the way it ought to have been. All that was left to her was the determination to shape the future into what she wanted it to be.

So, for the wolf and the girl, all of the magic evidenced in the sorcery of Asshai; the fire breathed by creatures long extinct but now living once again; her own ability to be _in_ her wolf or _in _a cat or _in_ an eel or _in _the mind of a man (however tenuously) was given only the value and consideration of a tool she might use to accomplish what it was that was left to her to accomplish. Her single wish, her most cherished hope, her only desire was to _make them pay._ The future she saw was the future she had always seen: blood and steel. For her lullaby, she would have Cersei's screams. Instead of wedding vows, she would have Ser Ilyn's head. In place of the cries of her own babe, she would have the sound of Ser Meryn's blood spilling from his throat and splashing onto the ground. In place of warm nights in bed with her Lord husband, she would have the last breaths of the traitors of the Night's Watch. To her mind, it was a fair trade. She cared not if she tore out their throats with her very teeth and drank their warm blood as it fled their veins or if she carved out their hearts with the fine point of a child's Needle. The girl's heart wanted what it wanted. The wolf's heart wanted the girl.

Neither of their desires would be met at Saltpans, it seemed.

The wolf felt restless, knowing she had come, once again, at the wrong time. The pack could easily have overrun this town, undefended as it was. The girl could see that as readily as the wolf sensed it. They could have eaten, but the meat was meager enough and would taste of sorrow and turn their stomachs, or so the girl thought. Better to stay in the wilderness surrounding the area and hunt such prey as lived there. She gazed out over the water and it showed muddy and low with the tide out, not the sparkling blue and green of her memory. Even the water seemed to echo the waste and ruin of the village. There was nothing of beauty here except her cousins; not like it was across the Narrow Sea. She turned to move deeper into the forest so that she might join her pack. They needed to hunt.

The great beast padded silently away from the village but her progress was stopped by a hand in her fur… on her shoulder… She stopped and turned her snout upward, catching a scent on the wind. It was an odd sort of smell, strange in these parts, but the girl knew it. Some sort of spice…

"Lovely girl, did you think a man had abandoned you?"

The Cat cracked one eye open and saw her master sitting on the edge of the small bed in which she was curled. She was wearing a man's _favorite _blouse, noticeably wrinkled after having sat, wadded up, at the foot of her bed since her departure from the temple to assume the role of cook at a popular inn. Wrinkles or no, it was a better option for sleepwear than the filthy shift she had left in the corner of her room _or_ the obscenely sheer sleeping gown that a widow had been gifted by a Pentoshi ship's captain. The shift, still stained with canal muck, had not fared well during her absence since it was still damp when it was abandoned in a ball. It seemed to have actually _mildewed_ a bit. The sheer gown… well, that was buried deep in the bottom of her trunk.

"I waited for a bit," she yawned, "but it started to get cold as the fired died in the bath chamber, so I came here to find some clothes. I only meant to lay down for a while as I waited for you. I wasn't expecting to sleep here. I really need to get back to the inn."

"It is so late now, it makes no sense for you to leave. You would be better served to rest here and then return to the inn at dawn."

"Then… why did you wake me?"

"A girl was howling."

His face appeared serious but the Cat could not believe it was true. Nymeria hadn't even howled in her… _dream_?

"What? No! I wasn't _howling_," she insisted, slightly horrified at the thought. Not that there was anything wrong with howling generally... but to do so in front of one's master…

"No, a girl was not howling," the Lorathi admitted, his bronze eyes twinkling in the candlelight. "But, you did seem restless."

"Where _were_ you, Jaqen?"

He pulled her black and white robe from his lap and held the folded garment up for her to see, showing her that he had it as if in answer of her question. He then leaned over and draped the robe over the foot rail of her bed.

"So… it took you that long to retrieve my robe? Where did I leave it, in Lys?"

"As a man left you to do you this favor, a matter arose that needed tending to. It prevented… a timely return."

"I noticed," the Cat wearing Mattine's face said, yawning again. "Did you see the Bear?"

"Hmm? No. A man believes his sister sent the large boy to his cell to rest."

"So, what was this _matter_ that arose?"

Jaqen looked at the girl blankly for a moment and then told her that not everything was something for her to know. It was a familiar song and though she understood the need for secrecy and caution in this temple of assassins (some of whom had attempted very recently to assassinate _her_, or so it had seemed), his refusal to answer her question irked her nonetheless. Her passive face became somewhat pinched and her soft lips hardened themselves in a firm line as she turned her back to him, rolling to face the opposite side of the bed from which he was sitting. She used her fist to punch at her thin pillow a bit, trying to reshape it into a more comfortable form. Without a word, she jerked the edge of her blanket up higher, closing her eyes with a forceful sigh. The whole thing might have been a bit overdone. A moment later, the girl felt her master's fingers curl over her shoulder and rest there. Her eyes opened instantly at his touch and she felt immediately vexed.

"_What_?" she demanded, flipping from her side to her back and looking at him.

Jaqen employed his typical purr when he spoke, seeking to assure himself that she was truly alright after the events of the night.

"A girl was not hurt in her duel?"

She did not allow herself to feel appreciative of his concern and instead, folded her arms across her breast, furrowing her brow before she replied.

"I said so, didn't I?" she answered irritably. "But it's late, and I really don't think _now_ is the best time to discuss what happened. It has been an exceedingly long day. Had you come right back as you said you would, we could have had this discussion already, but since _a matter arose…_"

One corner of the Lorathi's mouth curled up into a half-smile at the small tirade of his apprentice.

"Shhh," he soothed, his patronizing manner causing her fury to grow. "A man would not hear of a girl giving up her sleep simply for the telling of a tale. It can wait. It is said that lovely girls need their sleep. That it… helps with the beauty?"

"Jaqen, what are you talking… do you actually think I care… Oooh!" she seethed, caught between sitting up to confront him about his ridiculous comment and turning away from him once again. It led to her curling up slightly, then curling slightly over, then up again, and then over again, all while making tiny, dissatisfied squeaks. The effect was quite comical.

Her mentor could contain his amusement no longer and actually _snorted._ It was positively infuriating. After all she had been through that night, her temper was short and she wasn't renowned for her mild manner as it was. Then, to be left waiting for what seemed like hours, only to finally drift off to asleep, just to be awakened before enough time had passed for the sleep to do any good... It was not to be borne!

"A girl should be calm. Mattine has a lovely face, sleep or no sleep," her master told her in those soothing tones that nearly inspired her to show him _how proper _was the punch she could throw. At his face. Repeatedly.

"So, you like Mattine's face, do you? Well, when I'm done with it, you can just..."

Before the girl could complete her thought, her master interrupted her with his murmuring purr.

"This Braavosi cook is quite lovely, but a man much prefers a girl's _true_ face."

She was not sure what she should make of that.

There was no hint of emotion in the expression of Jaqen H'ghar as he spoke the words. There was no longing in his eyes. He showed no evidence of desire. He said that he preferred her true face in the same way a man might say he preferred Dornish wine to the vintages from the Reach, or that he preferred to fight with a war hammer rather than a sword. It was a simple statement of fact, despite the purring way in which he said it. He might prefer her true face because it was easier for him to read. Or, because in a sea of beautiful, olive-skinned women, her face was unique for its fairness, a mere novelty. Or, because he was simply used to it and had grown comfortable with her _Stark look_.

He called Mattine's face _quite lovely _and said he preferred his apprentice's true face as if it meant nothing at all to him; as if _beauty_ held no value. And why would it, when one could wear as stunning or ugly a face as one chose, for the small price of blood and the favor of those within the House of Black and White? And that new face, as winsome or grotesque as it might be, would not reveal anything of the wearer beneath it. Why would he value appearance when he could conjure the handsomest or most beastly of faces with as little effort as breathing?

He had called Mattine's countenance _quite lovely_ in a way that seemed to suggest that _quite lovely_ was no more preferable than _grossly disfigured. _As if it was mere observation. As if Mattine's doe eyes and smooth, unmarked olive skin would not turn his head or command his attention under different circumstance (circumstances that did not include the fact that Mattine was dead and her face had been peeled off of her corpse and plastered over the face of his apprentice so that she might assume the dead girl's identity in order to carry out an assassination bought with blood and flesh).

Jaqen had said _a man prefers a girl's true face_ and though the words themselves might be construed in a completely different way, his face seemed to suggest to his apprentice that it was _not_ her snowy cheek that called to him; as if her eyes shining grey like the waters of the sea during a winter's storm did not matter to him; as if the ribbon of her dark braid did not bring sharp focus to how lovely she had become when it weighted his hand; as if the curve of her jaw and the bow of her upper lip and the sighing perfection of her voice and soft feel of her shoulder beneath his curving fingers meant nothing to him.

And perhaps what he meant to show her was that what he valued was what lay beneath it all; her stubborn courage and independence; her wit and determination; her loyalty to and esteem of her master as her savior; the rescuer of a small girl; a shadowy, mysterious force who had brought her from the harsh land of her birth as it existed for her when she was but a girl of one and ten, delivering her to more kindly arms.

All of this, a girl determined from an expression, or, more precisely, the lack of one when a man spoke his words. Part of her training within the walls of the temple had been meant to make her adept at reading faces and knowing the truth behind the words that were spoken. She had gotten very good at this skill, despite her protestations that it was easier to beat the truth from a man than read it in his words. She had acquired the skills necessary to see the truth behind the frowns and smiles and hesitations of men and she was getting better and better at this. But she had never been very good at reading her master. Or, perhaps he was just better at not being read. As she sat thinking and wondering, her master thought as well, but his eyes were quiet and his face still. The girl considered his words regarding her face and Mattine's face and wondered...

_What value did a face have for a Faceless Man?_

And yet, Jaqen did value her face, though his lovely girl could not see the truth of that. He _saw_ her and drank in her loveliness and noted her beauty in a way he had never noted beauty before. He cherished it. He relished that fair cheek and the full bottom lip a girl was so fond of chewing and the way the curve of her shoulder felt in his palm. He did not know if he loved the look of her simply because it was _hers _or if he would have loved the look of her even if he knew aught about her. He did not care. It made no difference. He felt no possession of her. Indeed, he had no way to _understand_ such possession much in the same way _she_ had no way to understand romantic love. When she was young enough that the world was still uncomplicated and she had opportunity to be exposed to such love, she had thought it stupid. Her only models of such things were the stories her sister favored but which _she_ ridiculed, the odd serving girl sighing or giggling when Theon Greyjoy gave out one of his crooked smiles, and the occasional feelings her parents displayed for one another, so long ago now that they had nearly faded enough to be mere spectres of memory. Now that she was of an age where such feelings would be normal and expected of her, her understanding of love had been shaped and marred by all the horrors she had seen that had called themselves love. As far as she could tell, love was _weakness _and that was something she could not tolerate.

The girl had no way to interpret the birds taking flight beneath her breast or the snakes writhing in her gut the same way her master had no way to interpret the unfamiliar longing and desire he felt, the burning that started deep within him, behind _his_ breast, when he saw her leap onto her brother's back, laughing in her breathless way as she was spun in dizzying circles or when he thought of her in the household of a wealthy man who desired the grieving girl whose face the Cat wore. He had never experienced possession. He had never _owned_. He had never had reason for jealousy and so it was a sensation for which he had no reference. As a servant of the Many-Faced god, he had always had everything a man could need or want at his fingertips and so there had never been a need to envy other men their fortune. He had lived his life behind the walls of the House of Black and White. Even when he was out in the world doing the bidding of the order, he took them with him, those walls; those dictates; those comfortable parameters that kept him from straying too far from Him of Many Faces. The one time he had ignored his walls, he had decided he had the power to shape a destiny and had brought home a stray, highborn girl. His life had never been the same. He could not say if this was to his benefit or his detriment, but he was irrevocably changed and he would not change himself back even were such a thing possible. And it was in this way that a lovely girl had become _his _lovely girl, and he slowly began to see what it was to _have _something.

As they sat together in silence, each lost to thought, they were considering two sides of the same problem and they had both reached the same conclusion even though they had no way of knowing it. They both agreed that love was for fools. How foolish of them not to realize what fools they were.

* * *

Jaqen shook the girl awake sooner than she would have liked but later than she needed in order to not be rushed in her journey back to the inn. As it was, she had barely enough time to pull on breeches and tuck her master's favorite shirt into them before she was flying down the steps of the temple in the pre-dawn gloom en route to her familiar kitchen to start the breakfast for the inn's patrons. She realized that she would miss that warm kitchen when she entered the household of the dead man. She would miss Olive and Syrio and the soft cocoon of companionship that had enveloped her when she entered the inn as Mattine. With all of the thoughts surrounding her soon-to-change circumstances, it was only vaguely that the realization of Jaqen having stayed with her all night, keeping watch over her, crept around in the back of her head. She did not dwell on it. Her master was worried, and he was never needless anxious, and so she was grateful for his watchfulness even if she did not fully understand it.

The cook had just enough time to change into Mattine's plain brown dress and hide her breeches and blouse before Olive came into the kitchen.

"Good morning, Mattine," the tavern girl greeted. "Did you sleep well?"

"My sleep was excellent," the girl replied, wondering if the lie showed in her face at all. _I__ really must get a mirror._

"You look well-rested," Olive agreed. "It's a good thing your room is on the alley side of the inn. What a racket those _Bravos_ made last night! Oh, if only they would learn how to die in silence! Such clattering of steel!"

"Did you watch the duel?" Mattine asked, somewhat sharply.

"Me? No. I have seen enough duels to last me a lifetime. It's the curse of living so near the Moon Pool. After all these years, I just want some peace so I can get my beauty rest."

Mattine scowled at the turn of phrase but the wench did not see her as she set about pulling platters and tankards from the cupboards for the diners soon to be awake and hungry. As the two girls began chopping and mixing and cooking, the Cat suddenly recalled that her brother had promised to attend the midday meal at the inn later. She told Olive as much.

"Keep your curls pretty," the cook laughed.

"How do you know this man, anyway?" Olive wanted to know, patting her soft, brown ringlets.

"Oh... I'm teaching him to dance."

Olive just looked at the cook strangely but then shook her head and laughed in her way and the conversation moved on to other things as light banter between friends is like to do. Syrio arrived shortly to help clean the dishes the girls had dirtied in the preparation of the meal and the whole scene had the unmistakable cast of happiness and contentment about it. It was wonderful. And _unsettling._

Perhaps the unsettled feeling was more due to the significance of this midday meal and not that the Cat was unable to comfortably insert herself into a domestic circumstance that was gratifying and even happy, the girl thought. The Bear was coming, after all, and likely her _wealthy man_ as well. There was much to do and no mistakes to be made. Well, at least as far as the wealthy man was concerned. She needed to embody the perfect combination of reluctant submission and latent desire. Mattine needed to keep him interested without raising suspicion by suddenly becoming enthusiastic about his offer. She wasn't sure if the wealthy man would be bothered by such a shift in disposition, but she suspected it would alert his guard, especially after their recent run-in. The guard had struck her as an old sellsword, too tired to march across the harsh land in the name of someone else's cause for the promise of plunder. He had not become the personal guard to the wealthy man because he needed a challenge. He did it so he could feed himself without expending much effort. The guard was not much of a threat but he did maintain his powers of observation and probably still had that sixth sense that those who trade in danger and death often possess. _That _was what she had to be mindful of. She felt he was more _aware_ of her than she would like and would therefore be more wary of any missteps she made. The Cat had no doubt that she could best him in any circumstance, especially given the small paralyzing trick her master had taught her, but her mission was to deliver the gift to the wealthy man, not his guard. The Kindly Man was very insistent on the acolytes following their contracts precisely. This was not a mission for charging in with swords at the ready. It called for a much more delicate touch (admittedly, not her strongest skill. Perhaps that is why the principle elder had agreed so readily to allow her to take this assignment. It would be good practice in an art she had not completely mastered.)

The Bear arrived at the inn as early as it was seemly to do so. He wore sober clothes of black that made the cook think immediately of the Night's Watch when she spied him through the kitchen door as Syrio burst through. The small boy was carrying cups and platters collected from those who had dined upstairs for breakfast and as he swung the door open wide to enter the kitchen, the Cat could just see her brother taking a seat near the back of the room (_the same table at which a captain and a widow had dined before)._ The dark clothes marked him as part of the gentry of Braavos, the Cat knew, and this would impress Olive. The cook wondered if he had brought the serving girl a gift. There were no shortage of small tokens such as a young woman might like in the storage vaults under the temple. The door swung shut and the Bear was hidden from his sister's eye. Moments later, she spied him again as Olive pushed through the doors. The large apprentice looked none the worse for wear considering his late night activities, at least as far as his sister could tell from this distance.

"That fine man in the back wants ale and _whatever the cook wants to send him_," Olive giggled. "If you don't want him, Mattine, I think I'll have to have him. He's much too delectable to leave sitting there all alone. When will your friend arrive? A poor serving girl is growing lonesome..."

Mattine laughed at her friend's false pout and then pushed her arm lightly, telling her, "That's _him_, stupid! Now, go flirt until your heart is content."

The wench's eyes widened with delight and her dimples appeared. She quickly pinched her cheeks and smoothed her skirts and before the cook could utter further encouragement, the plump girl had managed to sashay through the door back into the common room with her sights set on her prey.

"Gods be good, the Bear has no idea what he's in for," the cook snickered and Syrio just smiled at her without understanding what she meant.

Mattine was suddenly very busy with preparing the noon meal for the rush of people that had decided to dine with them that day and she and Syrio set about their tasks in earnest, punctuated by the frequent in and out movements of Olive and Will, clearing dishes, delivering food, refilling pitchers with ale and carafes with wine. Even Staaviros showed up, lending an extra pair of hands. The cook settled into the comfortable rhythm of meal service and found herself thinking mostly of the food and the kitchen banter of the others. It was for that reason that it surprised her when Staaviros reentered the kitchen and placed his hand on her back, drawing her attention away from her broth and bread.

"There is a man asking to see you," he said quietly and his face looked grave.

"Alright," the cook said, wiping her hands on her apron, preparing to enter the common room to greet this man. _It must be the wealthy man. He's come back for my answer._ This was very good.

"It's the same man who... had the misunderstanding with Syrio," the innkeeper continued, and his tone seemed to carry a warning. The girl stopped and met his eyes.

"Alright," she said again, but slowly this time, and it had the sound of a question; an invitation for him to share his misgivings.

Staaviros' voice dropped a notch lower and he nearly whispered, "It's important to keep patrons such as this man happy, but you must understand, he... has a... _reputation_. Please be on your guard. I made your... _friend_ certain promises. I do not mean to invite his ire by allowing you to come to harm."

Mattine cocked her head and gave Staaviros a winning smile, assuring him that she would be very careful and that he did not have to worry about her. Inside, she was reeling a bit. _Jaqen asked an innkeeper to promise he would keep me safe? Preposterous! What could an innkeeper do that I could not? _The cook nodded at her employer and pulled away from his touch, pushing through the doors and scanning the room to find the face she sought. The wealthy man sat in his same spot. _A creature of habit._ His guard stood to his right, as ever, and as Mattine strode toward the man's table, she met the eyes of the rugged sellsword. She had to rein in her desire to pull up short, for that would have certainly been noticed and given rise to the suspicion of her by both men. But there was _something_ about the guard... He was the same but he was _not _the same. He radiated a danger and a sort of treacherous energy that she had not sensed in him before. Perhaps she had somehow given herself away during their last encounter... Or, following the incident with Syrio, he was bound to be more on guard, ready for the slightest sign of trouble. But, whatever it was, she felt she needed to reassess her complete dismissal of the threat the man posed. She tucked that into the corner of her mind she reserved for _problems to be solved later_.

"Ah, my dear _Mattine_," the wealthy man drawled, obviously expecting her to be impressed that he had deigned to recall her name.

"My lord," the girl returned formally, dipping a curtsy as she shyly turned her eyes to the floor. She could feel her brother's eyes upon her as well as Olive's.

"Have you considered my offer?" the man asked, not wasting any time.

The girl felt her skin crawling and though it would have been possible for the sensation to be caused by the undertone of the wealthy man's voice, as if he were suggesting his _offer_ included something beyond employment in his household, the girl knew her discomfort stemmed from a different source. The gaze of the guard was intense and it nearly felt as if his eyes had latched onto her with fingers as cold and icy as the frozen branches of the trees near Winterfell. She hazarded a glance up to the guard's face and found his eyes bright and sharp. This caused her to change tactics a bit, feeling an acceptance of the wealthy man's proposal now would confirm whatever distrust the guard seemed to be displaying. _More reluctance_, she decided.

"I... have, my lord," the girl began hesitantly, her eyes dropping once again to the floor. "I... I know that you are being very kind to offer me a place in your household, but... I just feel I cannot impose on that kindness. And the innkeeper, Staaviros, well... he depends on me. I would not like to leave him in such a bad position. He just lost one cook. It would be hard for him to lose another." She ventured to look up at the wealthy man's face as she finished speaking and saw him narrow his eyes a bit. He seemed to be considering the possibility that Staaviros might have already claimed the affections that he was seeking for himself. A subtle turn of her body, meant to display Mattine's curves to their best advantage without seeming to do so consciously, settled the matter for Hellind's former lover.

"Nonsense!" the man boomed. "I shall speak to this innkeeper. I am certain an arrangement can be made. I will not accept defiance in this matter, Mattine."

There was a hint of a threat in his voice, a small display of the sinister nature that had led to the contract on his life being taken in the first place. The girl nodded timidly, thinking, _what a foul sack of flesh you are, my lord _as she curtsied quickly and scampered back to the kitchen. Before she crossed the threshold and left the common room, she gave a furtive look and a small signal to her brother and noted quickly that she was understood. He would meet her in the alleyway later. As the cook entered the kitchen, she was followed almost immediately by Olive who stepped very near to her and whispered urgently in her ear.

"Do you know what you're doing?" the tavern wench asked.

Mattine's face was placid as she turned toward her friend.

"I know exactly what I am doing."

Olive regarded the cook with a slight frown and keen eyes and then inquired, "And how will your handsome man take the news that you are moving into a new household, after he went to the trouble to get you this position?"

"We have discussed it, and he was not happy, but he accepts my judgment," the cook told Olive honestly.

"A wealthy, handsome man defers to the judgment of his low-born lover? That must be the first I have heard of such a thing," the wench commented in a tone of almost disinterest. Now it was Mattine who frowned slightly and _her _doe eyes that looked keenly at her friend. _What exactly did Olive believe is going on here?_

"Enough of my handsome man. What of yours?" the cook queried the wench in an attempt to redirect the conversation.

At her question, Olive actually blushed. She began to describe her interaction with the Cat's brother and the plans they had made to meet late in the evening, after the supper was finished and Olive might have some free time to slip away from the inn. The cook nodded at her enthusiastically, smiling at the tavern girl's obvious pleasure. She was sure her brother was just as happy as Olive and thought his injuries would likely keep his actions honorable, even if his intentions were not. As the girls continued their lighthearted discourse on love and men, Staaviros entered the kitchen and told Olive that he needed her in the common room helping the diners. The wench gave the cook a knowing look and then left the kitchen to tend to the guests of the tavern. Once the door had closed behind her, the innkeeper turned to his cook and sighed.

"Atius Biro has asked that I release you from your obligation to me so that you may join his household," Staaviros told her, and from his tone, she knew that the word _asked_ didn't exactly describe what it was that the wealthy man had done.

"And what did you say?"

"I told him that the decision was yours, that Braavos is a _free _city," the innkeeper said, looking at her ruefully. "First, a man with an air of menace comes into my inn and says to me _valar morghulis_ before he _requests_ that I find a place for you here. Next, one of the most powerful men in the city comes into my tavern and demands that I release you into his service. I don't know who you are, girl, but it is obvious to me that you are no ordinary cook if you can enchant the Faceless Men and Atius Biro so."

The girl made her doe eyes as wide and guileless as she knew how and then turned them on Staaviros. He regarded her coolly for a moment but then his disposition softened. He sighed before he spoke again to her.

"Still, I've no wish to see you harmed. I've no cause to complain of your work. You get along well with the rest of the staff," the innkeeper admitted and then he placed his hand on her shoulder. "I will hide you if you need me to. I can tell Lord Atius that you have left. Just say the word, girl."

"No, Staaviros. You are very kind," the girl told him sincerely, "but this is something I must do."

"Are you certain?" the man asked her doubtfully, and then he whispered, "Do you understand what you are doing? Have you heard the reputation of this man?"

The cook placed her hand over the kindly innkeeper's own and nodded at him, telling him that she understood what the risks were but that she had her reasons.

"For your help and for your concern, I thank you," the Cat told him. "And I am certain that you will have the gratitude of the man who secured me this place."

_And of the order which he represents, _she did not say, but she could tell by the subtle look of relief on Staaviros' face, she did not need to.

"And besides," the girl told the innkeeper jovially, "you'll be able to get your old cook back now."

"Mattine, you have a place here if ever you have need of it," Staaviros told her, squeezing her shoulder once before he dropped his hand and walked toward the door. "I'll go let Lord Atius know you will be joining his household after the service has ended tonight."

Mattine smiled at him as he departed, and it was a pretty smile, full of warmth and gratitude and the excitement at the possibilities of taking a position in a wealthy man's household held. The smile was a lie. Inside, the wheels of her mind were turning, cranking out a plan that would satisfy the real Mattine's requirements as well as bring her home as quickly and as safely as possible. As the plan took shape in her mind, her smile took on a different look. It was full of malice and all the coldness she could muster from within the heart that beat beneath the olive breast. She recalled her lesson with the waif not so long ago, when she had bottled the Tears of Lys despite her many distractions. What was it that the tiny master had said to her? _Do you want to be the Faceless Man renown for rendering men's bowels to water? _

Now, which step was it that she had nearly bungled and that would have caused her deadly poison to become a mere source of belly pain?

* * *

_**Sunday Bloody** **Sunday**_-U2

_**Silver**_**_ Lining_-**Lee DeWyze

_**Pumped Up Kicks**_-Foster the People (watch out, wealthy man)


End file.
